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WERNER'S 


Readings  and  Recitations 


NUMBER  TWENTY-SIX 


NEW  YORK 
EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1902,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner  Publishing  &  Supply  Co. 
Copyright,  1923,  by  M.  S.  T.  Werner 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Advantages  of  Adversity  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers — Edward  Everett...     50 

Ambition  of  a  Statesman. — Henry  Clay 16 

Attitudes  Illustrated  in  Verse. — Martha  E.  Barbour 112 

At   Uncle    Dock's.— Elsie    Malone    McCollum 73 

Aunt  Susan's  Quilt. — Eugene  Wood   17 

Benediction. — Francois  Coppee   154 

Boy  Kept  Step.— Opie  P.  Read 67 

Changing  Her  Mind. — Alfred  Perceval  Graves 96 

Christmas. — Margaret  E.   Sangster 99 

Christma-s  Bells. — Henry   W.    Longfellow 97 

Christmas  Carol. — Phillips  Brooks   23 

Christmas  Exercises    97 

Christmas  Gift.— Ella  M.  Powers 98 

Christmas  Gifts   99 

Christmas    Welcome    100 

Colonel's  Experiment. — Will  Lisenbee 81 

Curfew. — Henry   W.    Longfellow 116 

Deacon  Adams  to  His  Son 163 

"Death  Has  Crowned  Him  as  a  Martyr." — Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 59 

De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne. — William  Henry  Drummond 95 

De  Tired  Pickaninny's  Star-Song. — Mary  Baillie 110 

Dikkon's   Dog. — Dorothy   Lundt    164 

Dream-Ship. — Eugene  Field  52 

Dying  Christian  to  His  Soul. — Alexander  Pope 26 

First  Valentine    66 

Fountain. — James  Russell  Lowell   115 

Generosity    72 

Getting  Rid  of  Her  Daughter's  Beau 75 

"Good  Night."— Reginald  Whitfield  Kaylor 171 

Grandmamma's  Fan. — Edith  S.  Tupper 138 

How  Bateese  Came  Home. — William  Henry  Drummond 46 

How  Girls  Fish  136 

How  Lucy  Backslid. — Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 133 

How  Persimmons  Took  Cah  ob  der  Baby 145 

In  Memory  of  Lincoln. — John  N.  Baldwin 104 

"I  Was  on  the  Merrimac" 160 

Kindergarten    Christmas — Hayden    Carruth 14 

(3) 
Werner's  Readings  No.   26. 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Lecture  Recital:  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox.— Grace  B.  Faxon 60 

Lecture  Recital:  Three    Women    Poets    of    New    England.— Grace    B. 

Faxon    7 

Let  Santa  Claus  in   103 

Lost  Bride  (Ginevra). — Samuel  Rogers 157 

Lotty's  Message. — Alexander  G.   Murdoch 38 

McKinley's  Funeral  Address. — C.  M.  Manchester 78 

Matthew  the  Miner.— Frank  L.  Stanton ; 108 

Mary  Ellen  Attends  a  School  of  Elocution.— Mary  S.  Hopkins 43 

Master. — A.  Conan  Doyle 117 

Merry   Christmas    101 

Mrs.  Middlerib's  Letter   ISO 

Nanny  Saved  from  the  Poorhouse. — J.  M.  Barrie 87 

Old  Actor's  Story. — George  R.  Sims 35 

Our    Glorious    Language 74 

Out  Sleighing  with  Sophia. — George  V.  Hobart 70 

Phenomenal  Memory   170 

Queen   Mab. — Thomas   Hood    28 

Queen's  Last  Ride. — Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 26 

Reasonable  Man. — Lucy  Hayes  Macqueen 125 

Recruit. — Robert  W.   Chambers 85 

Rejoicing  upon  the  New  Year's  Coming  of  Age.— Charles  Lamb 55 

Remarkable  Honeymoon  Trip. — Laurence  Lee 34 

Sandalphon. — Henry  Wadsworth   Longfellow 173 

Schoolboys'  Strike. — R.  J.   Burdette 161 

She  Never  Was  a  Boy. — S.  E.  Kiser 169 

Sue  Waters's  Housekeeping. — Theo.  Whiting .' 107 

Tale  of  Christmas   Eve 24 

Three  Fishers. — Charles  Kingsley  45 

Time  Doeth  All  Things  Well.— Jerome  Harte 118 

Tobe's  Monument. — Elizabeth  Kilham   139 

Village  Coward. — Mary  Berri  Chapman 176 

Waltz-Quadrille.— Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 57 

Washington  Acrostic    119 

Water  Color   129 

What's  In  a  Name ? — Ellerton  Gay 122 

When  Pa  Takes  Care  of  Me. — Francis  C.  Williams 54 

When  the  Northern  Bands  Played  Dixie. — Frank  L.  Stanton 175 

When  the  Wind  Goes  Thro'  the  Maples.— Ella  M.  Truesdell 113 

White  Man's  Burden. — Rudyard  Kipling  . . .' 76 

Wonderful  Tar  Baby  Story. — Joel  Chandler  Harris 148 

Werner's  Readings  No.   26. 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

Baillie,  Alary    110 

Baldwin,  John  N.    . . : 104 

Barbour,  Martha  E 112 

Barrie,  James  Al 87 

Brooks,  Phillips   23 

Burdette/  R.  J 161 

Carruth,  Hayden   14 

Chambers,  Robert  W 85 

Chapman,  Alary  Berri 176 

Clay,  Henry   16 

Coppee,  Francois   154 

Doyle,  A.  Conan 117 

Drummond,  William  Henry 46,  95 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence   133 

Everett,  Edward    50 

Faxon,  Grace  B 7,  60 

Field,  Eugene 52 

Gay,  Ellerton    122 

Graves,  Alfred  Perceval 96 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler  148 

Harte,  Jerome 118 

Hobart,  George  V 70 

Hood,  Thomas   28 

Hopkins,  Alary  S 43 

Kaylor,  Reginald  Whitfield , 171 

Kilham,  Elizabeth   139 

Kingsley,  Charles   T^ 45 

(5) 
Werner's  Readings  No.   26. 


6  INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Kipling,  Rudyard    76 

Kiser,  S.  E 169 

Lamb,  Charles   55 

Lee,  Laurence   34 

Lisenbee,  Will   81 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth   97,  116,  173 

Lowell,  James  Russell 115 

Lundt,  Dorothy 164 

McCollum,  Elsie  Malone  73 

Macqueen,  Lucy  Hayes   125 

Manchester,  CM 78 

Murdoch,  Alexander  G 38 

Pope,  Alexander  26 

Powers,  Ella  M 98 

Read,  Opie  P 67 

Rogers,  Samuel  157 

Sangster,  Margaret  E 99 

Sims,  George  R 35 

Stanton,  Frank  L 108,  175 

Truesdell,  Ella  M 113 

Tupper,  Edith  S : 138 

Whiting,  Theo 107 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler   26,  57,  59 

Williams,  Francis  C 54 

Wood,  Eugene 17 


Werner's  Readings  No.    26. 


WERNER'S  READINGS 
AND  RECITATIONS  No.  26. 


CONTENTS,  ADDITIONAL.      1923  Edition. 

Apartment  Hunting. — Stanley   Schell    182 

Aunt  Hanner  Hayseed  Joins  a  Lodge. — Walter  Ben  Hare 185 

Aunt   Mandy's    Mating. — Catherine    Rhodes    Davis 189 

Beginning  to   Clean  Out. — Bertha  E.   Bush 179 

Betsy   Bobbity's    Bun    181 

'Cause  He'd  Nothing  Else  To  Do. — Herbert  Grey. 1S4 

Conquerors,  The. — M.   S.  Lancaster    180 

"De   Conjure   Man" — Charles   C.  Jones 187 

Gossips,    The 184 

Her   Garden. — Stanley    Schell    177 

Mumpy    Mumps. — Lucile    Crites    178 

Song  of   Good-By. — Frank  L.   Stanton    192 

When  Jack  Proposed   183 

AUTHOR'S  LIST,  ADDITIONAL.     1923  Edition. 

Bush,    Bertha    E 179 

Crites,    Lucile    178 

Davis,    Catherine    Rhodes    189 

Grey,  Herbert    184 

Hare,    Walter    Ben 185 

Jones,  Charles  C 187 

Lancaster,   M.    S 180 

Schell,  Stanley  177,  182 

Stanton,    Frank    L 192 


Werner's 
Readings   and    Recitations 

No.  26. 


j  ectute  Recital:   Three  Women  Poets  of 
New  England* 

'By     GRACE    <B .    FAXON. 

NEW  ENGLAND  has  furnished  us  so  many  shining  lights  of 
feminine  poetic  genius  that  to  select  adequate  representatives 
from  names  like  Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  Harriet  Prescott  Spof- 
ford,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Margaret  Deland, 
Mary  E.  Wilkins,  etc.,  places  one  in  a  position  where  individual 
preference  must  to  a  degree  assert  itself.  I  have  chosen  to  consider 
the  writings  of  three  women  who  lived  at  the  same  period,  of  con- 
trasting temperament,  and  whose  hereditary  endowments  varied  as 
greatly  as  did  the  environments  among  which  fate  had  set  each — 
Lucy  Larcom,  Celia  Thaxter  and  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

Mrs.  Jackson's  poetry  unquestionably  takes  rank  above  that  of 
any  American  woman  and  in  the  opinion  of  many  above  that  of  any 
Englishwoman  but  Mrs.  Browning  with  whom  she  is  often  compared. 
A  still  more  exalted  position  is  accorded  her  if  we  may  believe  a  story 
to  the  effect  that  some  one  who  asked  Emerson  whether  he  thought 
that  Helen  Hunt  occupied  first  place  among  the  women  poets  of 
America  received  the  reply,  "'  I  should  leave  out  the  women."  The 
story  is  not  impossibly  true  for  in  Emerson's  private  scrap-book, 
published  in  1874,  under  the  title  "  Parnassus,"  he  inserts  five  of 
Mrs.  Jackson's  poems  out  of  the  few  she  had  then  published,  and 

1 


8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

she  forms  one  of  the  group  of  only  three  American  poets  whom 
he  especially  mentions  in  this  volume's  preface. 

Mrs.  Jackson's  works  include  a  few — a  very  few — poems  of 
domestic  life,  love  poems  of  extraordinary  intensity  and  fulness, 
verses  showing  intimate  sympathy  with  external  nature,  a  few  odes 
of  high  dignity,  and  many  contemplative  poems,  the  last  of  such 
value  as  td  give  her  the  place  she  holds  in  poetic  literature.  It  was 
entirely  from  this  class  of  her  poems  Emerson  chose  for  his  collec- 
tion before  alluded  to.  His  avowed  favorite  "  Thought  "  well  illus- 
trates the  section  of  her  poems  of  contemplation. 

(Recite  "  Thought.") 

An  interest  is  always  acknowledged  in  a  writer's  first  poems. 
Mrs.  Jackson's  show  no  crudity  of  craftsmanship.  "  Coronation  " 
appeared  in  the  Atlantic,  1869,  in  connection  with  which  the  pseudo- 
nym "  H.  H."  was  first  used. 

(Recite  "  Coronation.") 

In  lyric  quality  Mrs.  Jackson  falls  far  below  Celia  Thaxter  and 
Lucy  Larcom.  Indeed  there  appears  but  little  of  this  strain  espe- 
cially in  her  later  writings.  "  When  the  Tide  Comes  In  "  is  written 
in  appealing  rhythm,  and  may  be  quoted  as  the  best  example  of  her 
lyric  poems. 

(Recite  "  When  the  Tide  Comes  In.") 

Among  the  pen  pictures  she  has  painted  of  external  nature 
"  September  "  and  "  October's  Bright  Blue  Weather  "  stand  out  pre- 
eminent. Simply  as  she  has  chosen  her  words  its  faithfulness  has 
won  the  former  widespread  renown. 

(Recite  "September.") 

The  last  two  verses  because  of  their  personal  note — a  rare  thing  with 
this  author — are  omitted  when  the  reciter  is  simply  revealing 
through  the  poet's  eyes  an  early  autumnal  scene.  That  touch  of 
personality  seems  to  have  irresistibly  crept  in  and  forms  a  subject  of 
interesting  conjecture  for  the  romantic  mind  as  to  what  particular 
event  in  the  life  of  this  brilliant  woman  so  indelibly  stamped  "  one 
day  in  one  September." 


AND    RECITATIONS    No.    26.  9 

Who  does  not  love  our  ever  loved  second  fall  month  still  more 
after  he  reads  "October's  Bright  Blue  Weather"?  One  forgets 
the  near  approach  of  grim  November  and  still  drearier  December 
and  feels  only  a  keen  exuberance  of  joy  in  living  amid  such  outdoor 
glories.  An  editor  of  an  educational  magazine  annually  brings  this 
poem  as  a  panacea  for  heavy-heartedness,  popularly  supposed  to  ac- 
company the  "  melancholy  days,"  to  her  readers'  notice,  with  "  no 
apology,"  as  she  says  for  its  recurrence. 

{Recite   "  October's   Briglit  Blue   Weather.") 

What  exquisite  simile  is  discovered  in  Mrs.  Jackson's  dainty  frag- 
ments of  verse  entitled  "  Dawn  "  and  "  Eve,"  descriptive  of  the 
rising  and  setting  sun. 

(Recite  "Dawn"  and  "Eve.") 

Granted  Mrs.  Jackson  the  position  she  holds  among  American 
women  poets,  with  all  respect  to  her  fidelity  to  the  scene  or  mood  she 
is  picturing,  her  skill  as  a  colorist,  and  her  dignity  of  conception, 
even  her  warmest  admirers  will  admit  that  she  has  failed  to  come  as 
near  the  people's  hearts  as  her  humbler  sisters,  Lucy  Larcom  and 
Celia  Thaxter. 

Why  has  she  failed?  Is  it  for  the  want  of  individual  character- 
ization ?  Hardly ;  Longfellow,  the  dearest  of  all  American  poets, 
shows  himself  to  a  high  degree,  personally  reticent  in  verse.  Lack 
of  feeling  certainly  can  not  be  attributed  to  Mrs.  Jackson's  poems 
for  sympathetic  tenderness  fills  them  and  an  under  thrill  of  sensitive- 
ness breaks  through  the  fine  precision  of  faultless  verse  symmetry. 
We  shall  be  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  the  reasoning  that  the 
failure  must  lie  in  the  fact  that  she  rarely  wrote  on  lines  of  common 
human  experience,  but  usually  expressed  the  emotions  of  exceptional 
and  sensitive  spirits. 

This  trait  is  more  easily  illustrated  than  defined.  Xone  of  the 
poems  previously  used  embrace  the  referred  to  element,  but  take,  for 
instance,  "  Semitones,"  which  highly  typifies  the  larger  number  of 
Mrs.  Jackson's  poems. 

(Recite  "  Semitones.") 
Not  that  this  poem  does  not  breathe  of  truth — truth  to  a  very  human 


10  WERNER'S   READINGS 

feeling — and  not  that  it  does  not  represent  poetry  in  a  high  form; 
but  it  does  not  reveal  itself  as  such  to  the  busy  man  or  to  the  tired 
mother  though  they  both  may  be  lovers  of  poetry  and  impressionable 
people.  But  if  the  experience  of  which  the  sonnet  speaks  has  come 
to  them  they  very  likely  have  not  recognized  it,  consequently  attach 
little  importance  to  such  flutters  of  sensibility. 

Not  that  it  is  here  intended  to  insist  that  only  spiritual  natures 
like  Emerson,  for  instance,  can  interpret  and  take  to  themselves  the 
loftier  strains  of  Mrs.  Jackson's  utterances,  but  it  is  true  that  much  of 
her  poetry  is  concerned  with  subtleties  of  emotional  experience  such 
as  appeal  only  to  persons  who  are  acquainted  with  their  inner  selves, 
who  have  attained  the  power  to  analyze  and  weigh  each  fleeting  sen- 
sation— these  are  the  ones  who  will  delight  in  Mrs.  Jackson's  psy- 
chological verse  studies.  For  the  rest  of  us  remain  beautiful  thoughts 
clothed  in  rich  garments  of  completeness  and  clearness,  which  bring 
with  their  absorption  a  keener  realization  of  the  world's  brightness 
and  happiness. 

Mrs.  Thaxter's  poetry  does  not  attain  the  stateliness  of  Mrs. 
Jackson's  but  her  verses  are  recognized  as  graceful,  refined,  distinctly 
feminine,  yet  womanly  strong.  She  has  taken  her  themes  from  the 
life  and  incidents  about  her  and  she  has  made  the  best  use  of  her 
material,  which  after  all  is  much  the  same  as  Emerson's  with  the 
difference  between  a  barren  island  and  a  well  wooded  country  town. 
Another  difference  is  that  she  looks  at  her  subject  objectively  and 
then  treats  it  subjectively  while  Emerson  does  exactly  the  reverse. 

Her  poems  show  the  closest  observation  of  natural  phenomena, 
especially  of  the  changing  seasons  of  the  sea  in  its  varying  moods ; 
and  they  are  redolent  of  flowers  even  to  the  humblest  weeds,  thistle 
and  mullein  stalks,  as  well  as  elderberry,  sumach  and  bayberry.  She 
notes  the  habits  of  birds,  butterflies  and  moths  and  the  strange  fish 
found  in  the  waters  around  her  lonely  home ;  and  she  is  unequaled 
in  description  of  the  great  sea  birds  that  swoop  high  above  these 
rocky  islands,  while  the  smaller,  more  companionable  ones,  like  the 
sandpiper,  song  sparrow,  and  swallow  have  no  less  frequently 
claimed  the  attention  of  her  pen. 

In  "  The  Sandpiper,"  perhaps  her  best  known  poem,  she  has  given 
us  a  wild  sea  scene  with  the  little  bird  always  in  the  foreground,  the 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  11 

materialism  of  the  whole  being  made  inferior  to  the  subjectivity  by 
the  final  and  unexpected  strain  of  sentiment. 

(Recite  "  The  Sandpiper.") 

Her  first  poem,  "  Land-Locked,"  was  published  unknown  to  her 
by  James  Russell  Lowell,  editor  of  the  Atlantic  to  which  magazine 
she  afterward  became  a  frequent  contributor.  At  the  time  Mrs. 
Thaxter  had  been  married  but  a  few  months.  She  had  exchanged 
her  island  home  for  an  inland  city  one  and  the  verses  show  her  home- 
sickness for  the  sweet  awful  voice  of  the  sea. 

(Recite  "Land-Locked.") 

What  music  became  to  Celia  Thaxter  in  the  latter  years  of  her  life 
she  shows  in  her  poems  on  Beethoven,  Mozart,  Schubert,  Chopin, 
and  Schumann,  of  which  one  *  of  the  two  on  Beethoven  takes  an 
apostrophic  form,  sublime  in  conception. 

(Recite  "  Beethoven.") 

Mrs.  Thaxter's  ability  to  write  on  any  everyday  incident  is  well 
exampled  in  a  poem  entitled  "  In  a  Horse-Car." 

(Recite  "  In  a  Horse-Car.") 

Mrs.  Jackson's  love  poems  may  excel  those  of  Mrs.  Thaxter's 
in  fervor  but  not  in  daintiness.  "  Because  of  Thee  "  is  an  exquisite 
fragment  of  this  class. 

(Recite  "Because  of  Thee.") 

Again,  Mrs.  Thaxter's  "  Autumn  "  well  stands  the  test  of  com- 
parison with  Mrs.  Jackson's  poems  descriptive  of  the  fall  months. 

(Recite  "  Autumn.") 

Tales  of  shipwrecks,  of  some  of  which  she  had  been  an  eye  wit- 
ness, comprise  most  of  Mrs.  Thaxter's  narrative  poems,  but  one, 
"  Heartbreak  Hill,"  embodies  a  popular  Essex  County  legend  and 
is  replete  with  local  coloring. 

(Recite  "Heartbreak  Hill") 

*  The  one  beginning  "  If  God  speaks  anywhere,"  etc. 


12  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  mournful  song  of  the  sea  appears  to  have  been  not  withot" 
its  effect  upon  Mrs.  Thaxter  for  a  vein  of  sadness  prevails  in  her 
writings  which  strangely  contrasts  with  her  sunny  face  and  her 
established  reputation  for  geniality.  Her  pensiveness  does  not  reach 
the  depths  of  Mrs.  Jackson's  analytical  emotion  studies,  but  because 
it  is  more  distinctly  human  it  appeals  to  the  most  of  us  as  more 
convincing.  The  strain  is  not  so  pronounced  but  that  we  may  ignore 
it  if  we  choose,  and  at  all  events  it  does  not  injuriously  impress  us. 
In  that  dear  little  melody,  "  Sing_,  Little  Bird,"  we  feel  the  sweetness 
of  the  bird's  song,  the  fragrance  of  the  bright  flower  more  keenly 
than  we  do  the  sorrow  and  darkness  of  the  world  that  Mrs.  Thaxter 
would  have  us  simultaneously  recognize. 

(Recite  "Sing,  Little  Bird") 

"  Good-By,  Sweet  Day  "  is  perhaps  as  famous  as  any  of  Mrs. 
Thaxter's  poems.  Certainly  every  heart  must  respond  to  the  beauty, 
movement  and  thought  of  these  exquisite  lines. 

(Recite  "  Good-By,.  Sweet  Day.") 

Of  the  three  women  whose  writings  I  have  chosen  to  consider  I 
might  place  those  of  Lucy  Larcom  third  in  rank,  but  I  should  make 
haste  to  assert  that  with  many  persons  she  holds  first  place.  Her 
poems  are  more  nearly  related  to  Mrs.  Thaxter's  than  to  Mrs.  Jack- 
son's for  they  treat  of  the  material  rather  than  of  the  spiritual.  In 
many  instances  her  verses  are  cruder  than  Mrs.  Thaxter's,  but  they 
make  up  in  wholesomeness  of  optimism  and  healthfulness  of  truth 
and  common  sense.  I  should  say  that  much  of  Miss  Larcom's  popu- 
larity is  due  to  her  essentially  American  spirit  inherited,  and  fos- 
tered by  her  early  associations  which  are  too  w^11  known  to  rehearse 
here.  She  represents  the  feminine  as  Whittier  the  masculine  side 
of  what  may  be  fairly  called  "  Americanism  "  in  poetic  literature. 

Like  Mrs.  Thaxter  Miss  Larcom's  home  was  beside  the  sea,  and 
she  has  drawn  upon  it  for  many  of  her  subjects.  "  Hannah  Binding 
Shoes  "  and  its  companion  piece  "  Skipper  Ben  "  are  generally  con- 
sidered her  masterpieces,  and  they  have  achieved  an  international 
reputation. 

(Recite  "Hannah  Binding  Shoes"  following  it  with  "Skipper  Ben") 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  13 

In  many  of  her  sentimental  poems  Miss  Larcom  has  been  likened 
to  Whittier  to  whose  constant  encouragement  of  her  work  she  ac- 
knowledged great  indebtedness.  It  seems  only  just  to  make  known, 
however,  that  "  The  Old  School  House  "  anticipated  by  several  years 
Whittier's  famous  poem  on  the  same  theme. 

{Recite  "  The  Old  School  House.") 

Miss  Larcom  sympathized  with  Whittier  in  his  anti-slavery  views, 
and  like  him  wrote  some  stirring  patriotic  poems,  her  "  A  Loyal 
Woman's  No  "  being  one  of  the  most  popular  lyrics  of  the  war. 

(Recite  "A  Loyal  Woman's  No.") 

Of  her  poems  descriptive  of  the  seasons  "  November  "  may  be 
cited  as  of  value  equal  with  Mrs.  Jackson's  "  September  "  and  Mrs. 
Thaxter's  "  Autumn." 

(Recite  "November") 

In  making  an  analytical  study  of  Miss  Larcom's  poetry  it  becomes 
apparent  that  her  range  is  wider  than  Mrs.  Jackson's  or  Mrs.  Thax- 
ter's. Indeed  she  finds  expression  in  almost  all  forms  of  versifica- 
tion: the  epic,  as  in  "  An  Idyl  of  Work  ";  the  ballad,  relating  some 
story  or  legend  of  early  New  England  days ;  the  lyric  in  numerous 
forms — pastoral  songs  breathing  of  fields  and  farms,  lyrics  of 
nature  in  all  moods,  lyrics  of  grief  as  when  she  chants  the  dirge  of 
Whittier's  sister  Elizabeth,  or  tolls  the  passing  bell  of  Lincoln, 
sacred  lyrics  in  which  she  deals  with  the  human  heart's  deep  emo- 
tions, expressing  its  longing  for  immortality  and  its  adoration  of 
God ;  and  her  range  is  further  enlarged  by  the  sonnet  and  the  stately 
ode.  Her  religious  poems  have  met  with  great  favor,  as  for  example, 
"  Hand  in  Hand  with  Angels  "  which  keeps  before  one  the  thought 
of  unseen  spiritual  presences. 

As  closing  poem  I  will  quote  "  In  the  Street "  which  deals  with 
broad  humanity  and  forcibly  reminds  one  of  Mrs.  Thaxter's  "  In  a 
Horse-Car." 

(Recite  "In  the  Street") 


14  WERNER'S   READINGS 

A  Kindergarten  Christmas* 

A  Description  by  Mr.  Milo  Bush. 
By  HAYDEN  CARRUTH. 

i '  O  HE  hailed  from  round  Boston  somewheres,  and  she  came  out 
O  here  and  started  one  of  these  'ere  kindling-garters.  Roped  in 
all  the  small  children  in  town  and  begun  to  learn  'em  to  string 
straws,  and  map  out  beans,  and  wad  wet  clay  and  such  other  prac- 
tical things  which  would  be  useful  to  'em  when  they  growed  up. 
Well,  it  seemed  to  be  a  good  thing,  though  I  don't  reckon  our  folks 
would  'a'  took  much  stock  in  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  girl  herself. 
That'  there  girl  was  the  prettiest  girl  that  ever  struck  the  country. 
Such  eyes  as  she  had !  And  that  mouth  of  hers ! — well,  I  b'lieve  if 
it  could  'a'  been  done,  that  every  man  in  town  would  'a'  had  himself 
reduced  to  eighteen  inches  high  and  gone  to  school  to  her,  and 
strung  his  straw,  and  wadded  his  gob  of  clay  with  thumbkins. 

"  She  was  the  most  enthusiastic  girl — and  the  prettiest!  She  just 
kept  us  parents  on  the  jump.  Doing  what,  do  you  think?  Living 
for  our  children!  That  was  all,  but  it  kep'  us  busy.  Finally  Christ- 
mas hove  in  sight,  and  the  girl  got  more  excited  than  ever.  Called 
another  mothers'  meeting,  and  we  fathers  was  on  hand.  The  girl 
made  another  speech.  Christmas  was  coming.  Didn't  we  know 
the  little  song  about  Christmas?  And  wot  it  said  about  Sandy 
Claus?  The  song  told  especially  of  Sandy  Claus's  reindeers,  and 
the  children  were  much  interested  in  the  reindeers.  Wot  fond  parent 
would  volunteer  to  show  the  children  a  team  of  reindeers? 

"  I  sprung  to  my  feet  while  the  other  parents  was  leaning  for'ard 
to  rise,  and  says  I :  '  Miss,  if  we  can  find  a  pair  of  reindeers  in  Bon 
Pierre  County,  or  even  one  reindeer,  or  half  a  reindeer,  or  a  critter 
that  looks  like  a  reindeer,  I'll  drive  him  for  the  children.'  ■  Thank 
you,'  says  the  girl,  smiling  at  me ;  and  if  she'd  'a'  asked  me  to  drive 
two  lions  tandem  with  a  hyener  under  the  seat,  I'd  'a'  done  it.  '  And 
you  are  on  the  right  track,  Mr.  Bush,'  she  goes  on ;  '  there  are,  of 
course,  no  reindeers  here.  We  must  stimulate  some  reindeers,  Mr. 
Bush.'    '  Wot  ?  '  says  I,  thumbkin  behind  my  ear,  letting  on  I  hadn't 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  15 

heard.  '  We  must  stimulate  some  reindeers — counterfeit  'em,  you 
know.'  Well,  we  all  talked  the  matter  over,  and  decided  that  the 
best  we  could  do  was  to  take  a  couple  of  mooley  steers  belonging  to 
Zeb  Woodbeck,  and  tie  some  horns  on  'em,  hitch  'em  to  a  light 
sleigh,  and  let  'cm  sizzle,  with  me  a-holding  the  reins,  and  mebbe 
calling  cheerily  :  '  On,  Prancer !    Whoa,  Dancer ! ' 

"  Well,  there  ain't  much  more  to  tell.  I  done  it.  'Bout  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  so's  the  little  ones  could  go  home  and  get  to 
bed  early.  The  plan  was  to  have  the  children  in  front  of  the  school- 
house,  and  I  was  to  dash  around  the  corner,  swing  round  the  house  a 
couple  or  three  times,  and  then  leave  the  sleigh  and  crawl  through  a 
hole  in  the  back  end  of  the  building,  and  pop  out  behind  the  stove 
as  the  children  come  in  the  door,  all  frosty,  and  with  flowing  whisk- 
ers, and  wearing  pillers  under  my  clothes,  and  with  my  nose  red. 
It  took  a  pile  of  fixing  up,  and  when  they  got  through  with  me  my 
nose  was  the  only  thing  which  I  could  recognize  as  my  own.  Then 
I  got  in  the  sleigh  down  by  the  livery-barn,  and  drove  up  around, 
the  steers  trotting  off  pretty  free,  and  the  bells  on  'em  ringing  lively. 
Then  I  swung  'em  round  the  corner,  and  says  I :  '  On,  Prancer !  On, 
Dancer ! '  and  the  children  clapped  their  hands,  and  the  others  begun 
to  yell,  and  somehow  it  excited  them  critters,  and  they  hopped  up 
into  the  air,  and  yanked  round  their  heads,  and  their  horns  fetched 
loose  and  tipped  back  and  took  'em  on  the  shoulders,  and  Dancer  let 
out  an  awful '  B-a-a-a-r ! '  and  Prancer  kicked  sideways  at  a  dog,  and 
they  lit  out  down  the  main  street  like  a  bloo  streak,  me  a-sawing  on 
the  reins  and  a-yelling  '  The  Night  Before  Christmas  '  at  'em  in 
chunks.  As  we  tore  through  town,  both  reindeers  b-a-a-a-r-ing  and 
kicking,  the  bells  a-ringing,  every  dog  in  town  close  behind,  making 
use  of  their  own  language,  and  my  own  voice  not  idle,  we  was  said 
to  'a'  presented  a  impressive  spectacle.  We  tore  on.  After  passing 
over  six  miles  of  prehayrie  in  a  few  minutes,  I  was  throwed  out  by 
the  sleigh  striking  a  rock.  Them  stimulated  reindeers  went  on. 
My  knee  was  fractured,  and  I  started  to  crawl  back  the  six  miles, 
singing  cheerily,  '  Clap,  clap  with  glee ;  for  Christmas  is  coming  and 
merry  are  we !  '  My  whiskers  impeded  my  crawl  a  good  deal  by 
getting  under  my  knees,  but  I  reached  the  house  of  a  settler  about 
dark. 


it  I 
it  I 


16  WERNER'S   READINGS 

"  '  Didn't  you  go  by  here  a  spell  ago  sort  as  if  you  was  in  a  kind 
of  a  hurry  ? '  says  he. 

No/  says  I ;  '  that  was  Sandy  Claus.' 

It  looked  like  you;'  says  he. 

We  are  one  and  the  same/  says  I ;  '  e  pluribus  unum.  I  was 
stimulating  Sandy  Claus.  Bring  in  some  snow  and  thaw  out  my  left 
earkin.' 

See  yere,  old  man/  says  he ;  '  before  I  stir  a  step  tell  me  wot 
in  all  creation  you  are  making  such  a  Tom-twisted  fool  of  yourself 
for.' 

"  '  I  am  living  for  a  Boston  kindling-garter  teacher/  says  I ; 
'  fetch  in  that  snow  ! '  " 


Ambition  of  a  Statesman. 

By  HENRY  CLAY. 

I  HAVE  been  accused  of  ambition  in  presenting  this  measure, — 
ambition,  inordinate  ambition.  If  I  had  thought  of  myself  only 
I  should  have  never  brought  it  forward.  I  know  well  the  perils  to 
which  I  expose  myself, — the  risk  of  alienating  faithful  and  valued 
friends,  with  but  little  prospect  of  making  new  ones,  if  any  new 
ones  could  compensate  for  the  loss  of  those  we  have  long  tried  and 
loved ;  and  I  know  well  the  honest  misconception  both  of  friends  and 
foes.  Ambition  !  If  I  had  listened  to  its  soft  and  seducing  whispers, 
if  I  had  yielded  myself  to  the  dictates  of  a  cold,  calculating  and  pru- 
dential policy,  I  would  have  stood  still  and  unmoved.  I  might  even 
have  silently  gazed  on  the  raging  storm,  enjoyed  its  loudest  thunders, 
and  let  those  who  are  charged  with  the  care  of  the  vessel  of  State  to 
conduct  it  as  they  could. 

I  have  been  heretofore  often  unjustly  accused  of  ambition.  Low, 
groveling  souls,  who  are  utterly  incapable  of  elevating  themselves  to 
the  higher  and  nobler  duties  of  pure  patriotism, — beings  who,  for- 
ever keeping  their  own  selfish  ends  in  view,  decide  all  public  measures 
by  their  presumed  influence  or  their  aggrandizement, — judge  me  by 
the  venal  rule  which  they  prescribe  to  themselves.  I  have  given  to 
the  winds  those  false  accusations,  as  I  consign  that  which  now  im- 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  17 

peaches  my  motives.  I  have  no  desire  for  office,  not  even  the  highest. 
The  most  exalted  is  but  a  prison,  in  which  the  incarcerated  incum- 
bent daily  receives  his  cold,  heartless  visitants,  marks  his  weary 
hours,  and  is  cut  oft  from  the  practical  enjoyment  of  all  the  blessings 
of  genuine  freedom. 

I  am  no  candidate  for  any  office  in  the  gift  of  the  people  of  these 
States,  united  or  separated;  I  never  wish,  never  expect,  to  be.  Pass 
this  bill,  tranquilize  the  country,  restore  confidence  and  affection  in 
the  Union,  and  I  am  willing  to  go  home  to  Ashland  and  renounce 
public  service  forever.  I  should  there  find  in  its  groves,  under  its 
shades,  on  its  lawns,  'mid  my  flocks  and  herds,  in  the  bosom  of  my 
family,  sincerity  and  truth,  attachment  and  fidelity  and  gratitude, 
which  I  have  not  always  found  in  the  walks  of  public  life.  Yes,  I 
have  ambition  ;  but  it  is  the  ambition  of  being  the  humble  instru- 
ment, in  the  hands  of  Providence,  to  reconcile  a  divided  people ; 
once  more  to  revive  concord  and  harmony  in  a  distracted  land, — the 
pleasing  ambition  of  contemplating  the  glorious  spectacle  of  a  free, 
united,  prosperous,  and  fraternal  people. 


Aunt  Susan's   Quilt 

By  EUGENE  WOOD. 

SMonotogue    for    a.     Woman. 

Costume  :  Old-fashioned,  quiet  dress  and  shawl,  poke  bonnet  with 
a  rusty  black  feather,  white  wig  combed  down  over  the  ears,  a  big 
breast-pin,  black  lace  mitts.  Enter,  carrying  a  bulging  carpet-bag 
and  a  big  paper  box. 

Yessum,  it's  me  'r  whut's  left  of  me.  An'  glad  to  git  back ;  not 
but  whut  I've  enjoyed  myself  whilst  I  was  down  to  York,  but  it's 
nice  to  be  back  home.  Well,  sir,  give  me  Pokeberry  Corners  where 
a  body  kin  hear  theirselves  think,  an'  where  you  know  whut's  goin' 
on  an'  who's  who.  'Tain't  whut  you  might  call  lonesome  neither 
down  to  York. 

I  don't  need  to  ask  if  you  took  good  keer  o'  my  bird.  I  don't 
know's  I  ever  noticed  his  singin'  sounded  so  s'rill.      [Pause.]     Yes. 


18  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Pause.]  Uh — uh.  [Pause]  Well  I  d'know's  I'd  hang  him  right 
in  the  sun  that  way.  [Pause.]  Wouldn't  -he  eat  it?  [Pause.] 
Well,  you  know  he's  used  to  havin'  it  fried  fer  him.  I  jist  bet  that 
cat's  jist  about  run  wild  sence  I  ben  gone.  [Pause.]  Well,  'twas 
awful  good  o'  you,  Mis'  Parkins,  to  take  care  of  the  bird  an'  to  feed 
the  cat.  [Pause]  Every  day?  Well,  you  know  plants  don't  need 
to  be  watered  more'n  oncet  every  two  or  three  clays.  You  might  ha' 
saved  your  steps  an'  you  so  much  to  look  after  an'  all.  I  feel  to  say 
how  much  obleeged  to  you  I  am  for  your  kindness.  'Twas  reel 
neighborly  of  you.  [Business  of  picking  up  carpet  sack  and  putting 
paper  box  -under  arm.] 

So  if  you'll  jist  gimme  the  key  now  an'  hand  me  down  the  bird 
cage  I'll  go  over  and  start  a  fire.  [Pause.]  Laws,  yes,  white 
satin,  low  neck  an'  short  sleeves.  [Pause.]  Veil  an'  all.  Yes. 
Orange-blossoms,  too.  Oh,  jist  lovely.  [Pause.]  White  kid  gloves. 
Come  clear  up  about  the  elbow.  [Pause.]  Took  'em  off  to  put  the 
ring  on.  [Pause.]  No.  I  reely  must  be  gittin'  home.  Look  how 
long  I  ben  gone,  week  ago  last — now  don't  you  go  to  any  trouble, 
Melissy  Parkins.  ■  Land  knows  you've  got  enough  to  do.  [Pause.] 
Well,  ain't  you  bin  livin'  neighbor  to  me  long  enough  to  know  I 
don't  take  no  trimmin's  in  my  tea?  [Business  of  drinking  and  then 
looking  at  the  cup.]  I  alius  did  like  them  sprigged  cups  o'  yourn, 
Melissy.  You  got  to  will  me  them  when  you  die.  [Pause.]  Sixty 
cents  a  pound !  Why,  Melissy !  It's  just  splendid,  though.  Does 
a  body  so  much  good. 

Well,  I  s'pose  I  oughtn't  to  be  settin'  here  runnin'  on  about  the 
weddin'  an'  that  house  a-lookin'  like  distraction.  But  I  do'  know's 
I  ever  enjoyed  myself  so  much  as  I  did  then.  Jimmy  was  never  no 
great  hand  to  write  letters  an'  if  I  got  one  oncet  a  year  why  'twas 
as  much's  I  could  expect.  So  when  that  invite  to  the  weddin' 
come,  thinks  I,  "I'll  go,  if  it's  the  last  act."  I  hadn't  seen  him  for 
ten  years,  exceptin'  once,  that  time  he  was  up  to  Equity  on  law 
business  an'  jis'  stayed  over  night.  You  know  how  kind  o'  peaked 
lie  used  to  be.  Well,  he's  all  filled  out, — big,  tall,  fine-looking  man 
he  is.  Gets  that  from  his  pa.  The  Larkins  was  alius  big.  But  he's 
got  his  ma's  looks  an'  ways.  I  was  alius  her  favorite  an'  when  she 
died,  she  left  him  to  me  to  take  care  of.     Thay  say  old  maids  do' 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  19 

know  nottin'  about  the  rearin'  of  children,  but  I  do'  know's  I  got  any 
cause  to  be  ashamed  o'  Jimmy  Larkin,  the  way  he  was  brought  up 
right  from  the  bottle,  an'  sich  a  time  as  I  had  with  him  a-gettin' 
one  cow's  milk.  He  alius  went  to  church  an'  Sunday-school  an'  alius 
was  kep'  clean  an'  nice  for  day-school,  that  is,  nice's  you  kin  keep 
boys,  alius  a-whoopin'  an'  hollerin'  an'  trackin'  up  the  floor.  I  loved 
that  boy  as  if  he  was  my  own,  but  he  jist  about  druv  me  plum 
distracted  in  muddy  weather,  all  over  my  nice  clean  floor  till  I  made 
him  set  on  the  back  porch  an'  pull  oft  his  shoes  an'  come  in  in  his 
stockin'  feet.  [Pause.  ]  Jist  half  a  cup.  Now  there, — you've  gone 
an'  filled  it.  Tchk !  Tchk  !  Well,  I  s'pose  they's  no  use  pourin' 
it  back  in  the  pot  now. 

So  I  jist  made  up  my  mind,  go  I  would  come  what  might.  But 
you  know  what  the  Scripter  says  about  not  havin'  on  a  weddin' 
garment.  [Pause.]  I  got  Elviry  Hodges  to  make  over  that  old 
black  silk  o'  mine  an'  pert  two  rows  o'  jet  trimmin's  on  it  like  I  seen 
in  the  Home  Companion,  but  laws !  I  woosht  I'd  'a'  done  it  myself. 
[Pause.]  They're  wearin'  'em  more  flarin'  out  at  the  bottom  now. 
I  took  notice  to  that.  An'  then  I  thinks :  "  What'll  I  take  to  the  in- 
fare?"  For  I  jedged  the  bride  would  have  quite  a  settin'  out,  her 
pa  bein'  well  off  an'  Jimmy  bein'  right  forehanded  himself.  You 
know  that  camel's-hair  shawl  he  sent  me  last  Christmas?  Reel 
camel's-hair !  Reel !  Cost  him  $850.  So  you  know  I  couldn't  give 
the  bride  anything  common.  Well,  what  to  give  I  didn't  know  till 
I  thought  o'  that  quilt. 

So  I  got  it  out  an'  looked  it  over  an'  I  says  to  myself :  "  If  Jimmy's 
wife  knows  anything  about  housekeepin'  an'  especially  what  nice 
quiltin'  is,  she'll  see  that  it  wa'n't  no  one  day's  job  to  do  this  well, 
I  guess  not.  Why,  Melissy  Parkins,  I  had  that  quilt  in  the  frame 
five  weeks  an'  three  days.  Five  weeks  an'  three  days.  They's 
2147  pieces  into  it.  An'  a  good  many  of  'em  was  off  o'  dresses  an' 
aparns  'at  Jimmy  wore  when  he  was  little.  One  was  pink, — the  first 
short  dress  he  had.  They  was  another  piece  of  blue  chambry,  I 
iecollect,  made  out  of  a  sunbunnet  he  had  all  lined  with  fine  white 
jaconet,  that  cost  eighteen  cents  a  yard.  Things  wuz  dear  in  war- 
time. [Subdued  tone.]  Yes,  his  pa  was  killed  to  the  war, — Antie- 
tam.  [Sighs.]  Melissy,  if  you  got  any  more  hot  water,  I  will  take 
another  cup. 


20  WERNER'S   READINGS 

I  mind  a  piece  o'  fine  muslin  in  that  quilt  with  a  little  pink  sprig 
in  it,  that  he  wore  to  the  celebration  the  time  the  war  was  over — time 
they  had  the  bonfires  an'  the  fireworks,  an'  the  folks  was  just  plumb 
wild  an'  distracted  with  joy.  Don't  you  mind  the  Mt.  Hope  delega- 
tion was  all  little  girls  in  white,  ridin'  in  a  ox-wagon  all  over  posies 
an'  the  oxen's  horns  was  hung  with  artificial  flowers  ?  Why,  yes,  you 
do,  Melissy.  Don't  you  recollect  ?  An'  that  night  every  last  blessed 
man  in  town  got  tight  'cause  the  cruel  war  was  over.  [Pause.] 
Yes,  he  was  too,  Melissy  Parkins.  You  didn't  marry  him  till  after- 
ward so  you've  no  call  to  feel  responsible  for  that. 

Well,  my  laws !  when  I  got  off  at  the  deepoo  in  New  York  an' 
come  out  there  where  they  was  a  hull  lot  o'  fellers  in  plug  hats  a- 
squackin'  away  like  so  many  ducks,  "  keb,  keb,  keb,  keb !  "  I  was 
atchilly  skeered.  They  looked  as  if  they  drank.  An'  they  hollered 
so  fierce-like  at  the  people !  Me  not  thinkin'  to  send  Jimmy  word  o' 
course  he  wa'n't  there  to  meet  me  an'  which  way  to  turn  I  did-not- 
knozv.  [Pause.]  Well,  that's  jist  what  I  done.  I  jist  walked  up 
to  one  as  hold's  brass  an'  I  says  to  him :  "  Mr.  Policeman  " — ye  see 
I  knowed  him  by  his  buttons — "  I  want  to  go  to  this  place."  And 
I. showed  him  the  address.  Don't  ask  me  how  I  got  there  [gesture 
of  despair],  but  I  did.  [Pause.]  His  boardin'-house.  Well,  sir. 
You  could  ha'  knocked  hum  down  with  a  feather,  he  was  that  s'prised 
an'  tickled.  An'  he  got  me  a  room  in  his  boardin'-house.  [Pause.] 
Yessum,  they  told  ycu  right.  The  hot  water  an'  the  cold  water  jist 
squirts  right  outer  the  wall  when  you  turn  the  fasset. 

I  slicked  up  an'  went  clown  to  dinner.  They  call  supper  dinner 
down  to  York,  ain't  that  too  killin'?  Well,  sir,  we  had  a  long  talk 
about  old  times  an'  about  Plelen.  That's  his  wife,  Helen  Holbrook, 
that  was.  So  I  says  to  him :  "  Now  in  the  mornin'  you  take  me  over 
to  her  house,"  I  says,  "  ah'  I'll  take  right  hold  an'  help  her  ma  be- 
cause," I  says,  "  I  know  how  'twill  be.  Even  if  she  does  keep  a 
girl,"  I  says,  "  she'll  have  all  she  can  do  and  more  too,"  I  says, 
"  seein'  to  things,"  I  says,  "  an'  I'll  be  only  too  glad  to  help  her,"  I 
says,  "  an'  she  needn't  think  'twould  be  the  least  speck  o'  trouble  to 
me,"  I  says,  "  because  I  come  prepared,"  I  says,  "  I  got  a  new  big 
kitchen  apron  in  my  trunk  right  now,"  I  says,  "  which  I  put  in 
a-purpose,"  I  says. 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  21 

"  They  got  a  caperer  hired,"  he  says.  "  Oh,  get  out,"  I  says, 
"  I  wasn't  talking  about  cutting  capers  an'  dancin'.  Me  at  my  time 
o'  life,"  I  says,  "  an'  I  never  could  dance  unless  it  was  the  Virginiar 
Reel  an'  then  had  to  be  told  what  to  do  an'  drug  through  it.  [Pause,] 
Well,  maybe  'twas  caterer;  anyways,  he  told  me  I  was  jist  the  same 
as  a  mother  to  him  an'  he  wasn't  going  to  have  me  play  the  servant. 
But  between  you  and  me  and  the  gate-post,  Melissy  Parkins,  I  was 
disappointed,  for  I  'lotted  on  seein'  how  Helen's  mother  kep'  house 
so's  as  I  would  know  whether  Helen' d  be  a  good  wife  to  my  boy,  for 
he  is  my  boy. 

But  Lawsy,  my !  when  I  got  to  the  weddin'  the  nex'  night,  I 
thought  I'd  go  through  the  floor.  My  old  black  silk  wa'n't  no- 
wheres.  The  women  was  jist  a-glitterin'  with  diamonds  like  that 
alum-basket  o'  yourn  when  the  sun  strikes  it,  an'  the  men  with  spike- 
tail  coats  !  tchk.  But  I  didn't  see  none  of  'em  looked  any  finer'n  my 
Jimmy.  I  felt  so  cheap  that  I  sneaked  into  a  corner  behind  some 
pa'ms  whur  I  could  see  the  bride.  Awful  sweet  she  looked.  [Pause.] 
Hung  way  down  her  back  and  trailed  on  the  floor.  [Pause]  Oh, 
reel  point  lace,  'bout  that  deep  [measuring  on-  finger]  down  the  front 
an'  then  look  back  tow'rds  the  basque  [sweep  of  hand  back].  Car- 
ried a  prayer-book,  ivory  I  guess.  She's  Episcopal.  'Twas  reel 
solemn. 

Well  you  know,  when  it  was  all  over  and  they  was  congratulatin' 
'em,  I  felt  so  out  o'  place  that  I  slipped  upstairs  to  the  room  where 
I  had  took  off  my  bunnet  an'  shawl  an'  I  looked  acrost  the  hall  an' 
there  was  the  room  full  of  presents  the  other  folks  had  brought,  silver 
an'  'cut-glass  an'  pictures,  reel  oil  paintings,  hand-painted,  an'  me 
with  my  little  ole  footy  quilt.  Laws  !  I  jist  kind  o'  turned  one 
corner  back,  and  there  was  the  little  piece  o'  sprigged  muslin  he 
wore  to  the  celebration  an'  right  nex'  to  it  was  a  piece  off  the  green 
gingham  apern  he  wore  the  first  day  he  went  to  school  with  the 
bunch  o'  flowers  in  his  hand  for  the  teacher  an'  me  a-watchin'  him 
down  the  street  an'  all  a-trimblin'  to  think  of  the  responsibilities  that 
I  owTed  to  his  poor  dead  mother  an'  to  him  an'  how  he  was  takin'  the 
first  steps  that  was  lea  din'  him  out  into  the  world  an'  away  from  me 
an'  here  he  was  now  a  grown  man  an'  a  honor  to  his  perfession  an' 
to  me  though  I  was  no  honor  to  him,  amons:  all  them  fine  folks,  an' 


22  WERNER'S   READINGS 

my  throat  was  all  hurtin'  me  an'  the  tears  was  coming  to  my  eyes, 
when  all  of  a  suddint,  I  heard  a  dress  swishin'  beside  me  an'  ther' 
was  Helen  with  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  Jimmy  standin'  by. 

"  We've  been  lookin'  for  you  every  place,"  she  said.  "  When 
James — my  husband  " — I  reckon  I  was  the  first  person  she  used  them 
words  to,  speaking  of  my  Jimmy — "  when  my  husband  told  me  you 
were  here,"  she  says,  "  and  you  came  so  far  to  see  us  married,  I  just 
wanted  to  put  my  arms  around  you  and  hug  you  good,"  she  says, 
"  and  tell  you  how  I  want  to  be  as  good  a  wife  to  him  as  you  have 
been  an  aunt."  An'  I  put  my  arms  around  her  an'  bust  out  a-crying 
an'  we  jist  rocked  back  an'  forth  for  my  heart  was  full.  An'  I  could 
see  where  the  rascally  dressmaker  had  jist  tacked  on  the  heading  of 
the  bridal  dress  an'  'stid  o'  sewing  it  on  firm  it  was  comin'  off. 

Then  Jimmy,  kind  o'  fumbling  around,  says :  "  Why,  auntie,"  he 
says,  "ain't  this  a  quilt?     Looks  like  the  kind  you  used  to  make." 

"  You  let  that  be,"  I  says,  for  I  wasn't  goin'  to  let  'em  see  it. 
But  he  snatched  it  away  from  me  and  says,  "  Look  here,  didn't  you 
bring  this  for  a  weddin'  present.  Injun  giver!"  he  says,  "make 
a  present  an'  then  take  it  back." 

"  I  some  thought  I  would  give  it  to  your  wife,"  I  says,  "  it  ain't 
very  fine,"  I  says,  "  but  every  stitch  in  it  I  made  myself  an'  it  took 
me  five  weeks  an'  three  days,  what  time  I  could  spare  on  it,"  I  says, 
"  an'  they's  2147  pieces  in  it  some  of  them  from  the  first  clothes  I 
made  you,"  I  says,  "  an'  one  from  a  dress  your  ma  used  to  have  but 
it  ain't  fine  enough,"  I  says,  an'  I  was  goin'  to  say  more  but  Helen, 
she  up  and  kissed  me  right  on  the  mouth  an'  you  know  you  can't 
talk  when  somebody's  a-kissin'  you.  I  know  that  even  if  I  am  an  old 
maid,  an'  then  she  says,  "  All  them  fine  things  in  there,"  she  says, 
a-pointin'  to  the  room  where  the  rich  presents  were,  "  was  all  bought 
to  the  stores  with  money,  but  what  you  give  is  all  made  yourself. 
Oh,  my !  what  beautiful  stitches !  "  she  says,  "  how  could  you  ever 
do  it  ?  "  she  says. 

An'  we  set  right  down  there  an'  visited  an'  I  told  her  all  about  the 
dresses  Jimmy  had  an'  what  happened  to  him  when  he  was  a  little 
boy  an'  how  he  poured  coal  oil  on  his  hair  so's  to  be  like  Aaron 
in  the  Bible  when  he  was  anointed  with  oil.  An'  we  jist  had  a  grand 
time. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  23 

I  stayed  on  with  her  pa  and  ma  after  the  bride  and  groom  left  an' 
we  went  everywhere  an'  seen  everything.  My  laws !  I  got  enough  to 
talk  about  my  hull  endurin'  life.  [Pause]  You  got  the  hull  set  o' 
ihese  cups  and  saucers?  [Pause]  Well,  of  course,  the  cups  does 
get  broke  quicker'n  the  saucers.  [Pause.]  Well,  I  was  thinkin'  o' 
borryin'  them  next  week  when  Jimmy  an'  Helen  stops  over  on  their 
weddin'  tower. 


A    Christmas    Carol. 

<By  THILLIPS  'BROOKS. 

EVERYWHERE,  everywhere,  Christmas  to-night ! 
Christmas  in  lands  of  the  fir-tree  and  pine, 
Christmas  in  lands  of  the  palm-tree  and  vine, 
Christmas  where  snow-peaks  stand  solemn  and   white, 
Christmas  where  corn-fields  lie  sunny  and  bright. 
Everywhere,  everywhere,  Christmas  to-night ! 

Christmas  where  children  are  hopeful  and  gay, 
Christmas  where  old  men  are  patient  and  gray, 
Christmas  where  peace,  like  a  dove  in  its  flight, 
Broods  o'er  brave  men  in  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

Everywhere,  everywhere,  Christmas  to-night ! 

For  the  Christ-child  who  comes  is  the  Master  of  all, 
No  palace  too  great  and  no  cottage  too  small, 
The  angels  who  welcome  him  sing  from  the  height : 
"  In  the  City  of  David,  a  King  in  His  might." 
Everywhere,  everywhere,  Christmas  to-night ! 

Then  let  every  heart  keep  its  Christmas  within, 
Christ's  pity  for  sorrow,  Christ's  hatred  of  sin, 
Christ's  care  for  the  weakest,  Christ's  courage  for  right, 
Christ's  dread  of  the  darkness,  Christ's  love  of  the  light. 
Everywhere,  everywhere,  Christmas  to-night ! 


24  WERNER'S   READINGS 

So  the  stars  of  the  midnight  which  compass  us  round 
Shall  see  a  strange  glory,  and  hear  a  sweet  sound, 
And  cry :  "  Look !  the  earth  is  aflame  with  delight, 
O,  sons  of  the  morning,  rejoice  at  the  sight." 

Everywhere,  everywhere,  Christmas  to-night ! 


A    Tale  of  Christmas   Eve* 

<By  permission  of  The  Designer. 

IT  was  the  eve  of  Christmas,  the  snow  fell  slowly  down, 
And  like  a  mantle  overspread  the  little  seaport  town. 
Within  a  solitary  street  the  oil  lamps  glimmered  low, 
Their  feeble  ray  could  not  pierce  through  their  covering  of  snow ; 
The  cottages  on  either  side  no  cheery  welcome  gave, 
Their  inmates  slept,  and  all  was  dark  and  silent  as  the  grave. 
But  see  that  gabled  cottage  at  the  corner  of  the  road, 
The  flagstaff  plainly  showing  it's  a  mariner's  abode. 
A  light  streams  from  the  window,  so  unlike  to  all  the  rest. 
The  garden  gate  is  opened  wide,  as  if  to  greet  a  guest; 
But  who  on  such  a  night  as  this  would  dare  to  venture  forth? 
The  snow  drifts  deep,  the  bitter  wind  blows  from  the  chilly  north. 
Yet  there  is  one  who  fights  against  the  fury  of  the  night ; 
With  stumbling  stips  he  staggers  on,  a  shapeless  mass  of  white ; 
The  snow-flakes  fly  into  his  eyes  and  freeze  upon  his  hair, 
His  frozen  limbs  can  scarce  support  the  burden  they've  to  bear. 
He  falls,  and  for  a  moment  in  the  soft  white  snowdrift  lies; 
A  dreamy  feeling  o'er  him  steals,  he  has  no  wish  to  rise ; 
He  must  not  linger  there,  nor  to  such  thoughts  as  these  give  way, 
Or  never  more  will  he  behold  the  blessed  light  of  day. 
With  pain  he  rises  to  his  feet  and  struggles  on  once  more, 
Until  with  weary  limbs  he  comes  Up  to  the  cottage  door. 
He  gazes  through  the  window  with  a  keen  and  eager  look. 
An  old  dame  by  the  fireside  is  reading  from  a  book. 
She  reads  aloud  an  ancient  tale,  her  voice  is  low  but  clear. 
The  wanderer  starts — he  little  thought  that  tale  again  to  hear. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  25 

She  reads  of  how  a  son  forsook  his  home  and  parents,  yet 

They  never  ceased  to  think  of  him  with  longing  and  regret; 

And  while  his  time  was  spent  in  folly,  riotous  and  wild, 

The  parents  daily  prayed  that  God  would  send  them  back  their  child. 

The  wanderer's  heart  is  all  aflame,  his  eyes  with  anguish  burn 

As  once  again  he  hearkens  to  the  Prodigal's  return. 

The  tale  is  ended,  and  the  book  is  carefully  laid  by. 

The  dame  removes  her  spectacles  and  wipes  the  glasses  dry ; 

She  moves  the  lamp,  and  thus  lights  up  a  corner  of  the  room 

Where  until  now  a  gray-haired  man  was  sitting  wrapped  in  gloom. 

"Now,  mother,"  says  the  old  man,  "it's  near  midnight,  I  believe; 

The  bells  will  ring  in  Christmas  soon,  for  this  is  Christmas  Eve. 

Put  up  the  latch,  let  down  the  chain,  and  leave  the  door  ajar; 

Take  care  to  see  that  it  is  free  from  every  bolt  and  bar. 

For  ten  long  years  on  Christmas  Eve  this  I  have  always  done. 

But  now  I'm  blind  and  helpless,  and  no  use  to  any  one ; 

But  your  eyes,  mother,  are  as  bright  as  twenty  years  ago ; 

I  can  not  see  them  now,  but  still  I  know  they  must  be  so. 

Then,  mother,  you  see  to  the  door,  for  when  he's  ceased  to  roam, 

On  some  such  night  as  this,  maybe,  our  boy  will  come  back  home. 

On  Christmas  Eve  he  left  us  when  he  ran  away  to  sea, 

On  Christmas  Eve  he  will  return  to  mother  and  to  me. 

And  when  he  comes,  old  woman,  he  shall  have  a  welcome  warm, 

Where'er  he  be,  on  land  or  sea,  God  keep  him  safe  from  harm !  " 

The  wind  and  snow  beat  on  the  door,  and  drove  it  open  wide. 

With  arms  outstretched  and  trembling  feet  the  wand'rer  stepped  in- 
side. 

"  O  father !  mother  !  I've  come  back  !  forgive !  '"  was  all  he  said. 

The  blind  man  started  from  his  seat  and  raised  his  sightless  head, 

The  mother  gazed  like  one  amazed.  "  Ah,  God !  "  she  cried.  "  At 
last!" 

Then  rushed  into  the  wand'rer's  arms  and  held  him  tightly  clasped. 

The  Christmas  bells  chimed  merrily  their  tale  of  peace  and  joy, 

As  once  again  the  aged  folk  embraced  their  long-lost  boy. 


26  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  ^ying  Christian  to  his  SouL 

Ode. 
'By  ALEXANDER  TOPE. 

VITAL  spark  of  heav'nly  flame ? 
Quit,  oh  quit,  this  mortal  frame : 
Trembling,  hoping,  ling'ring,  flying, 
Oh,  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark !  they  whisper ;  angels  say, 
"  Sister  spirit,  come  away !  " 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite? 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death? 

The   world   recedes ;  it  disappears ! 
Heav  n  opens  on  my  eyes !  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring: 
Lend,  lend  your  wings !     I  mount !     I  fly ! 
O  grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  death !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 


The  Queen  s  Last  Ride* 

<By  ELLA    WHEELER  WILCOX. 

THE  Queen  is  taking  a  drive  to-day, 
They  have  hung  with  purple  the  carriage  way ; 
They  have  dressed  with  purple  the  royal  track 
Where  the  Queen  goes  forth  and  never  comes  back. 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  27 

Let  no  man  labor  as  she  goes  by, 
On  her  last  appearance  to  mortal  eye. 
With  heads  uncovered  let  all  men  wait 
For  the  Queen  to  pass  in  her  regal  state. 

Army  and  navy  shall  lead  the  way 

For  that  wonderful  coach  of  the  Queen's  to-day. 

Kings  and  princes  and  lords  of  the  land 

Shall  ride  behind  her,  a  humble  band. 

And  over  the  city  and  over  the  world 
Shall  flags  of  all  nations  be  halfmast  furled 
For  the  silent  lady  of  royal  birth 
Who  is  riding  away  from  the  courts  of  earth, 

Riding  away  from  the  world's  unrest 

To  a  mystical  goal  on  a  secret  quest. 

Though  in  regal  splendor  she  drives  through  town, 

Her  robes  are  simple,  she  wears  no  crown, 

And  yet  she  wears  one ;  for,  widowed  no  more, 
She  is  crowned  with  the  love  that  has  gone  before, 
And  crowned  with  the  love  she  has  left  behind 
In  the  hidden  depths  of  each  thinking  mind. 

Uncover  your  heads,  lift  your  hearts  on  high, 
The  Queen  in  silence  is  driving  by. 


(££#"**& 


28 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


Piano. 


Queen  Mah* 


<By     THOMAS    HOOD, 

<A  SMusical  Recitation. 
Allegretto  scherzando. . 


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And  from,   the    moon       she    flutters   down: 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.   26, 


29 


She    has    a    little    9il  : 

.Jrleno  mosso. 

vef  wand,  And    when 

.a    good 

child 

:  goes 

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from    right    to   left,  and  makes  a  circle,  round  its  head  And     then     it      dreams      of     pleasant  things, 


Tempo  I. 

Of 

uuntai 

filled 

with 

fairv 

Tibh, 

riffS—— 

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trees     that   bear 

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lovely  flowers   that    never   fade: 


Bright  flies        that;  "glitter     in    the'. 


30 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


•Un, 

A.nd 

glow-worms  shining 

in    the    shade. 

^•/y-Wn 

And     talking 

L;  '■ 

p>  V---1 

r-rr  -F 

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fci: 

pretty   dwarfs     to   show   the   way     Through    fairy  lulls  and  fairy  dales. 


But  when  a  bad   child  goes  to  bed.  From    left  to  right 

Meno  mosso. 


she  weaves  her      rings,      And       then     it    dreams        all    through    the      night      Of     only         ngly    horrid- 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.  26. 


31 


Tbeu       lions  come  with 


(il  basso  sonore) 
flittering 


And  tigers         growl,  a  dreadful 


And 

ogres 
trem 

draw      their 

cruel     knives, 

To 

shed     the     blood 

of     girls 

and'    boy9. 

F¥*-^n 

PP 

-f~ 

W— i — 

\               * 

=f$->*          "~~j 

Then  stormy 


Or  raging  flame 


82 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


CDme  scorching  round, 


Fierce     dragons  hover  in  the  air  And      serpent*    craw 

I*.  rs 


along    the   .ground. 


Then  wicked      children      wake 


C&ad     weep,     And      wish     the    long       clack      glocm      aw.ay: 


Tempo  con  e  prima. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  33 


A   LITTLE  fairy  comes  at  night,, 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  hair  is  brown, 
With  silver  spots  upon  her  wings, 
And  from  the  moon  she  flutters  down. 

She  has  a  little  silver  wand, 

And  when  a  good  child  goes  to  bed 
She  waves  her  hand  from  right  to  left, 

And  makes  a  circle  round  its  head. 

And  then  it  dreams  of  pleasant  things, 
Of  fountains  filled  with  fairy  fish, 

And  trees  that  bear  delicious  fruit, 
And  bow  their  branches  at  a  wish. 

Of  arbors  filled  with  dainty  scents 
From  lovely  flowers  that  never  fade ; 

Bright  flies  that  glitter  in  the  sun, 

And  glow-worms  shining  in  the  shade* 

And  talking  birds  with  gifted  tongues, 
For  singing  songs  and  telling  tales, 

And  pretty  dwarfs  to  show  the  way 
Through  fairy  hills  and  fairy  dales. 

But  when  a  bad  child  goes  to  bed, 

From  left  to  right  she  weaves  her  rings, 

And  then  it  dreams  all  through  the  night 
Of  only  ugly,  horrid  things. 

The  lions  come  with  glaring  eyes, 
And  tigers  growl,  a  dreadful  noise, 

And  ogres  draw  their  cruel  knives, 
To  shed  the  blood  of  girls  and  boys. 


34  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Then  stormy  waves  rush  on  to  drown, 
Or  raging  flames  come  scorching  round, 

Fierce  dragons  hover  in  the  air, 

And  serpents  crawl  along  the  ground. 

Then  wicked  children  wake  and  weep, 
And  wish  the  long,  black  gloom  away ; 

But  good  ones  love  the  dark,  and  find 
The  night  as  pleasant  as  the  day. 


cA  cRemarkahle  Honeymoon  ^Trip. 

By  LAURENCE  LEE. 

AN  accommodation  train  on  a  distant  railroad  was  dragging  along 
when  a  long,  lean  and  sallow  woman,  in  what  appeared  to  be 
subdued  bridal  finery,  leaned  across  the  aisle  of  the  car  and  said 
seriously  to  a  lady  sitting  opposite  her: 

"  Dear  me !  It's  a  kind  of  a  solemn  thing  to  be  travelin'  with 
two  husbands,  now,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  Oh,  mebbe  not.  Well,  you  see,  my  first  husband  died  'bout  a 
year  ago  an'  was  buried  over  in  Patrick  county,  and  last  week  I  was 
married  ag'in,  an'  me  an'  my  second  husband  have  been  over  in 
Patrick  county  on  a  little  weddin'  tower,  an'  I  thought  I'd  kinder 
like  to  have  my  first  husband  buried  in  the  graveyard  nigh  where 
I'm  goin'  to  live  now,  and  my  second  husband  was  willin',  so  we  tuk 
my  first  husband  up  an'  he's  in  the  baggage  car  along  with  our  other 
things.  My  second  husband  is  settin'  out  on  the  platform  takin'  a 
smoke,  an'  I  been  settin'  here  thinkin'  how  solemn  it  is  to  go  on  a 
weddin'  tower  with  two  husbands.  It's  a  tumble  solemn  piece  of 
bizness  when  you  come  to  think  of  it." 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.  26.  35 


TAe  Old  Actor  s  Story. 


By   GEORGE  R.    SIMS. 

MINE  is  a  wild,  strange  story, — the  strangest  you  ever  heard ; 
There  are  many  who  won't  believe  it,  but  it's  gospel  every 
word ; 
It's  the  biggest  drama  of  any  in  a  long,  adventurous  life ; 
The  scene  was  a  ship,  and  the  actors — were  myself  and  my  new-wed 
wife. 


We'd  acted  together  in  England,  traveling  up  and  down 
With  a  strolling  band  of  players,  going  from  town  to  town; 
We  played  the  lovers  together — we  were  leading  lady  and  gent — 
And  at  last  we  played  in  earnest,  and  straight  to  the  church  we  went. 

The  parson  gave  us  his  blessing,  and  I  gave  Nellie  the  ring, 

And  swore  that  I'd  love  and  cherish,  and  endow  her  with  everything. 

How  we  smiled  at  that  part  of  the  service  when  I  said,  "  I  thee 

endow !  " 
But  as  to  the  "  love  and  cherish,"  I  meant  to  keep  that  vow. 

Well,  at  last  we  got  to  London,  and  did  pretty  well  for  a  bit ; 
Then  the  business  dropped  to  nothing,  and  the  manager  took  a  flit, 
Stepped  off  one  Sunday  morning,  forgetting  the  treasury  call ; 
But  our  luck  was  in,  and  we  managed  right  on  our  feet  to  fall. 

We  got  an  offer  from  Melbourne, — got  it  that  very  week. 
Those  were  the  days  when  thousands  went  over  to  fortune  seek, 
The  days  of  the  great  gold  fever,  and  a  manager  thought  the  spot 
Good  for  a  "  spec,"  and  took  us  as  actors  among  his  lot. 


S6  WERNER'S   READINGS 

We  hadn't  a  friend  in  England — we'd  only  ourselves  to  please — 
And  we  jumped  at  the  chance  of  trying  our  fortune  across  the  seas. 
r'We  went  on  a  sailing  vessel,  and  the  journey  was  long  and  rough; 
We  hadn't  been  out  a  fortnight  before  we  had  had  enough. 

But  use  is  a  second  nature,  and  we'd  got  not  to  mmd  a  storm, 
When  misery  came  upon  us, — came  in  a  hideous  form. 
My  poor  little  wife  fell  ailing,  grew  worse,  and  at  last  so  bad 
That  the  doctor  said  she  was  dying, — I  thought  'twould  have  sent 
me  mad, — 

Dying  where  leagues  of  billows  seemed  to  shriek  for  their  prey, 
And  the  nearest  land  was  hundreds — aye,  thousands,— of  miles  away. 
She  raved  one  night  in  a  fever,  and  the  next  lay  still  as  death, 
So  still  I'd  to  bend  and  listen  for  the  faintest  sign  of  breath. 

She  seemed  in  a  sleep,  and  sleeping,  with  a  smile  on  her  thin,  wan 

face, 
She  passed  away  one  morning,  while  I  prayed  to  the  throne  of  grace. 
I  knelt  in  the  little  cabin,  and  prayer  after  prayer  I  said, 
Till  the  surgeon  came  and  told  me  it  was  useless — my  wife  was  dead ! 

Dead !  I  wouldn't  believe  it.    They  forced  me  away  that  night, 
For  I  raved  in  my  wild  despairing,  the  shock  sent  me  mad  outright. 
I  was  shut  in  the  farthest  cabin,  and  I  beat  my  head  on  the  side, 
And  all  day  long  in  my  madness,  "  They've  murdered  her !  "  I  cried. 

They  locked  me  away  from  my  fellows, — put  me  in  cruel  chains, 
It  seems  I  had  seized  a  weapon  to  beat  out  the  surgeon's  brains. 
I  cried  in  my  wild,  mad  fury,  that  he  was  a  devil  sent 
To  gloat  o'er  the  frenzied  anguish  with  which  my  heart  was  rent. 

I  spent  that  night  with  the  irons  heavy  upon  my  wrists, 

And  my  wife  lay  dead  quite  near  me.    I  beat  with  my  fettered  fists, 

Beat  at  my  prison  panels,  and  then — O  God !— and  then 

I  heard  the  shrieks  of  women  and  the  tramp  of  hurrying  men. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.   26.  37 

I  heard  the  cry,  "  Ship  a-fire !  "  caught  up  by  a  hundred  throats, 
And  over  the  roar  the  captain  shouting  to  lower  the  boats ; 
Then  cry  upon  cry,  and  curses,  and  the  crackle  of  burning  wood, 
And  the  place  grew  hot  as  a  furnace,  I  could  feel  it  where  I  stood. 

I  dashed  at  the  door  in  fury,  shrieking,  "  I  will  not  die ! 
Die  in  this  burning  prison !  "  but  I  caught  no  answering  cry. 
Then  suddenly,  right  upon  me,  the  flames  crept  up  with  a  roar, 
And  their  fiery  tongues  shot  forward,  cracking  my  prison  door. 

I  was  free — with  the  heavy  iron  door  dragging  me  down  to  death  ; 
I  fought  my  way  to  the  cabin,  choked  with  the  burning  breath 
Of  the  flames  that  danced  around  me  like  man-mocking  fiends  at 

play, 
And  then — O  God !  I  can  see  it,  and  shall  to  my  dying  day. 

There  lay  my  Nell  as  they'd  left  her,  dead  in  her  berth  that  night ; 
The  flames  flung  a  smile  on  her  features, — a  horrible  lurid  light. 
God  knows  how  I  reached  and  touched  her,  but  I  found  myself  by 

her  side; 
I  thought  she  was  living  a  moment ;  I  forgot  that  my  Nell  had  died. 

In  the  shock  of  those  awful  seconds  reason  came  back  to  my  brain ; 
I  heard  a  sound  as  of  breathing,  and  then  a  low  cry  of  pain ; 
Oh,  was  there  mercy  in  heaven  ?    Was  there  a  God  in  the  skies  ? 
The  dead  woman's  lips  were  moving,  the  dead  woman  opened  her 
eyes. 

I  cursed  like  a  madman  raving — I  cried  to  her,  "  Nell !  my  Nell !  " 
They  had  left  us  alone  and  helpless,  alone  in  that  burning  hell, 
They  had  left  us  alone  to  perish — forgotten  me  living — and  she 
Had  been  left  for  the  fire  to  bear  her  to  heaven,  instead  of  the  sea. 

I  clutched  at  her,  roused  her  shrieking,  the  stupor  was  on  her  still; 
I  seized  her  in  spite  of  my  fetters,; — fear  gave  a  giant's  will. 


38  WERNER'S   READINGS 

God  knows  how  I  did  it,  but  blindly  I  fought  through  the  flames  and 

the  wreck 
Up — 'Up  to  the  air,  and  brought  her  safe  to  the  untouched  deck. 

We'd  a  moment  of  life  together, — a  moment  of  life,  the  time, 

For  one  last  word  to  each  other, — -'twas  a  moment  supreme,  sublime. 

From  the  trance  we'd  for  death  mistaken,  the  heat  had  brought  her 

to  life, 
And  I  was  fettered  and  helpless,  so  we  lay  there,  husband  and  wife ! 

It  was  but  a  moment,  but  ages  seemed  to  have  passed  away, 
When  a  shout  came  over  the  water,  and  I  looked,  and  lo,  there  lay, 
Right  away  from  the  vessel,  a  boat  that  was  standing  by ; 
They  had  seen  our  forms  on  the  vessel,  as  the  flames  lit  up  the  sky. 

I  shouted  a  prayer  to  heaven,  then  called  to  my  wife,  and  she 
Tore  with  new  strength  at  my  fetters — God  helped  her,  and  I  was 

free; 
Then  over  the  burning  bulwarks  we  leaped  for  one  chance  of  life. 
Did  they  save  us?   Well,  here  I  am,  sir,  and  yonder's  my  dear  old 

wife. 


Lottys  Message* 

By    ALEXANDER    G.    MURDOCH. 

CAN  you  listen  to  a  heart-thrilling  story 
Of  pathos,  and  passion,  and  sin, — 
A  tale  of  the  tragical  sorrow 

That  comes  of  the  liking  for  gin? 
Your  ear,  then,  good  friends,  and  I'll  tell  it, 

In  just  as  plain  words  as  I  can, 
How  honest  Jack  Drew  was  a  drunkard, 
And  how  he  became  a  new  man. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.   26.  39 

For  Jack  was  a  right  honest  fellow, 

And  handsome  and  stalwart,  as  true, — 
A  forgeman,  who  wrought  a  steam  hammer, 

And  a  large  weekly  "  pay-bill  "  he  drew ; 
So  Jack,  like  his  fellows,  got  married, 

And  had  in  good  time  a  wee  "  tot," 
A  sweet  little  flaxen-haired  darling 

As  ever  fell  to  a  man's  lot. 


'Twas  Lotty  they  called  her — "  Wee  Lotty  "— ■> 

And  well  was  the  darling  caressed, 
Till  the  passion  for  drink,  like  a  demon, 

Killed  all  the  sweet  love  in  his  breast ; 
For  Jack,  who  was  once  a  good  husband, 

As  never  was  known  to  go  wrong, 
Began  to  dip  into  the  "  strong  stuff," 

And  the  end,  you  may  guess,  wasn't  long. 

And  Lotty 's  poor  mother,  alas,  sirs, 

Now  that  her  "  dear  Jack  "  was  astray, 
Broke  down  in  the  fight  to  make  ends  meet, 

And  passed  straight  to  heaven  away ! 
And  Jack  for  a  moment  was  sobered, 

And  drew  himself  back  from  the  brink 
Whereon  he'd  been  reeling  in  madness, — 

The  horrible  hell-pit  of  drink! 

But,  alas  for  the  heart's  human  weakness ! 

And,  alas  for  the  power  that's  in  gin! 
Jack  went  back,  like  a  tiger  unsated, 

To  drink  down  the  horror  within ! 
And  Lotty,  neglected  wee  Lotty, 

She,  too,  was  fast  wearing  away 
To  the  land  where  her  mother  had  gone  to 

Two  years  since,  last  Christmas  day. 


40  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Well,  one  night  in  the  depth  of  wild  winter, 

When  snow  lay  on  house-top  and  street, 
Jack  came  home  with  fierce  fire  in  his  sunk  eyes, 

His  face  gone  as  white  as  a  sheet; 
"  Lotty,  get  me  a  copper  on  these,  lass ! 

And  hurry  up !  quick !  or  I'm  done ! 
,    The  '  Pawns '  will  be  shut  in  a  minute, 

And  to  get  you  in  time,  lass,  I've  run!" 

And  he  handed  poor  Lotty  her  wee  boots, — 

The  only  good  pair  she  had  got ; 
"  Oh,  father,  the  Sunday  School  Soiree, 

Next  week !  "  and  she  smiled  at  the  thought. 
"  Curse  the  Sunday  School  Soiree !   Be  quick,  child ! 

Run   run  the  whole  way  all  your  might; 
I  must  have  more  drink,  or,  God  help  me, 

The  river  will  have  me  to-night ! " 

"  Hush,  father!  don't  speak  so !   I'll  go !  yes, 

I'll  run  as  I  ne'er  ran  before,, 
Though  weak  with  a  touch  of  the  fever — " 

"Off!  make  yourself  scarce!  out  the  door!" 
So  the  poor  child — ill-clad  and  sore  ailing, 

Slow  dying  of  want  and  despair — 
Ran  out  on  the  .cold  snows  barefooted, 

Death-pierced  by  the  cutting  night-air. 

But  Lotty  ran  hard  with  the  "  off  'ring," 

As  hard  and  as  fast  as  she  could, 
Till  checked  by  a  sudden  exhaustion; 

Then — slozvly  her  way  she  pursued. 
Weak  and  fainting  at  heart  she  crept  onward, 

Holding  on  by  the  wall  as  she  went; 
'A  strange  blinding  mist  o'er  her  eyesight, 

And  fear  in  her  heart,  weak  and  spent, 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  41 

Till,  reaching  the  pawn-shop's  dark  threshold, 

The  strong  door  was  slammed  in  her  face, 
With  a  "  Come  back  to-morrow,  young  slow-coach ; 

We  don't  'low  five  minutes  of  grace !  " 
So,  Lotty,  struck  dumb  with  chill  terror, 

Crept  back  to  her  father's  abode, 
Sinking  down  in  his  presence,  exhausted, 

As  if  crushed  by  a  terrible  load. 

"  Where's  the  money,  the  money  ?  oh,  curse  you ! 

These  boots !  you  have  hung  back  till  late !  " 
"  Nay,  father,  I  ran  without  stopping, 

Till  my  breath  felt  crushed  under  a  weight; 
My  boots,  I'd  have  pledged  them  to  serve  you, 

But  just  as  I  reached  the  '  Pawn '  door, 
'Twas  shut  in  my  face "   "  You  lie,  Lotty ! 

Take  that!" — and  she  swooned  on  the  floor. 


Yes,  he  lifted  his  clenched  fist  and  struck  her,- — 

Struck  down  the  sweet  child  of  his  love ! 
For  he  loved  her — but  loved  the  gin  better ! 

And  the  angels  wept  sorrow  above; 
Remorse  in  his  heart,  he  bent  downward, 

And  tenderly  lifted  the  child; 
Then  placed  her  upon  her  straw  pallet 

And  well-nigh  with  anguish  went  wild. 

"  Oh,  you  won't  die,  sweet  Lotty ! — speak ! — say  so ! 

And  he  wiped  the  warm  blood  from  her  face, 
"  I  was  mad,  worse  than  mad,  when  I  struck  you, 

A  wretch  undeserving  of  grace. 
Oh,  speak,  Lotty  ! — speak  !    I'm  your  father ! 

Sin-bruised  both  without  and  within : 
It  wasn't  your  father  who  struck  you, 

'Twas  the  demon  that's  bom  of  gin!" 


42  WERNER'S  READINGS 

As  beauty  and  peace  are  prefigured, 

When  God's  love  has  rainbowed  the  sky, 
A  smile  lighted  up  Lotty's  features, 

An  Iris  let  down  from  on  high: 
"  No,  father,  'twas  not  you  that  struck  me, 

I  know  it;  'twas  just  the  bad  drink; 
God  will  take  these,  your  tears,  as  repentance, 

And  strike  off  your  chains,  link  by  link. 


"  To  be  with  you,  and  comfort  you,  father, 

I  fain  for  a  lifetime  would  stay; 
But,  just  now,  do  you  know,  I  saw  mother, 

And — I  feel  that  I'm  going  away. 
Have  you  not  one  sweet  word  for  her,  father? 

I  should  like  so  to  speak  of  you  fair ; 
Just  one  dear  word  of  grace  from  your  own  lips, 

A  message  of  love  to  take  there  ?  " 


"  Lotty,  tell  her  I've  signed  it ! — yes,  signed  it  !- 

The  '  Pledge  '  she  oft  spoke  of  while  here ; 
With  my  heart's  anguished  blood  it  is  written, 

Though  the  trace  of  it  mayn't  appear. 
Tell  her,  Lotty,  I'll  join  her  in  heaven, 

God-willing — for  yours  and  her  sake; 
That's  my  one  word  of  love  to  your  mother, 

The  message  of  peace  you  will  take." 

A  smile  lit  the  wan  face  of  Lotty, 

A  smile  that  was  not  of  this  earth, 
For  long  ere  the  break  of  the  morning, 

She  passed  to  her  heavenly  birth. 
And  Jack,  poor  dear  fellow,  he  lives  yet, 

Though  sober  and  sad-like  of  face; 
And  he  hopes  a  reunion  in  heaven, 

Where  he  sent  Lotty's  message  of  grace. 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  43 

Mary  Ellen  Attends  a  School  of  Elocution. 


M 


<Bp  MARY  S.  HOPKINS. 

ARY  ELLEN,  me  daughter,  is  as  foine  a  gerrel  as  yez  could 
foind  in  all  the  burrers  av  New  York,  not  to  be  talkin'  av 
Hoboken  and  the  unmixed  disthrics,  barrin'  the  airs  she  do  be 
a-pittan  an,  and  the  call  she  hov  av  mixin'  in  wid  phat  is  none  av 
her  business.  Wid  her  Female  Sufferers  club,  her  electrocution 
colleges,  where  she  learned  to  trun  herself  around  and  shout  herself 
hoarse .  over  something  she  knows  as  little  about  as  her  brother 
Danny  does  when  he  hollers  for  free  trade — thinkin',  no  doubt,  that 
he  can  get  aff  widout  payin'  phat  he  owes  at  the  corner  groceray. 
An  Mary  Ellen  a-yellin'  about  a  beggar  that  had  lost  his  mind  an' 
she  a-wantin'  some  wan  to  "Pay,  pay,  pay/''  "Pay  phat?"  sez 
Oi,  when  she  was  goin'  'round  the  house  a-practoysin'.  "  Sure  it's 
as  much  as  any  honest  man  or  woman  can  do  these  days  to  pay 
their  own  debts,"  sez  Oi.  "  Well,  mother,"  sez  she,  "  ye  don't 
understand.  This  is  a  call  for  the  English  paple  to  take  care  of 
the  English  soldiers'  families  phile  they  be  fightin'  the  Bores,"  sez 
she,  "  down  in  South  Africa,"  sez  she.  "  An'  they  hov  all  lost  their 
moinds?"  sez  Oi.  "Well,  it's  no  wonder,"  sez  Oi,  "an'  it's  too 
bad,"  sez  Oi.  "  Wudn't  it  be  a  payin'  job,"  sez  Oi,  "  to  shut  them 
up  in  a  lunatic  asoylum,"  sez  Oi,  "  an'  if  they  want  to  bate  out 
their  inimies  (which  the  Lord  forbid  they  do!)  sind  down  some  min 
that  can  take  their  moinds  wid  thim  an'  settle  the  row.  But  will 
ye  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,  me  gerrel,  phat  a  full-blooded 
American  lady  loike  yoursilf  hov  to  do  wid  it?  A  foine  thing, 
indade,  for  a  daughter  av  Michael  O 'Grady  that's  voted  the  Dim- 
meycrat  ticket  since  the  day  he  landed  to  be  stanin'  in  front  av 
the  paple  askin'  pay  for  English  fighters  that  are  absent  moinded  or 
any  other  moinded,  or  their  kids  ayther.  Ye'd  betther  be  lavin' 
sooch  work  to  the  illegant  ladies  that  cooms  over  here  and  gets  up 
tay-parties  and  pulls  the  legs  av  the  pathrits.  Git  along  with  sooch 
nonsense !  Whin  yez  get  toired  Oi  suppose  yez'll  sthop,"  sez  Oi. 
An'  wid  that  she  tuk  hersilf  aff — a-bangin'  the  dure  behind  her. 
Was  Oi  tellin'  ye  the  way  Mary  Ellen  kem  to  make  sooch  a  fule 


44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

av  herself  wid  her  school  av  oratorio  airs?  She'd  been  talkin'  for 
a  long  time  about  a  man  she  called  Mr.  Delsthart,  or  Upsthart — all 
the  same,  she  was  goin'  woild  over  his  atheistic  jimjamastics,  and 
that  she  wanted  to  go  to  the  school  and  larn  to  rade.  "  An'  will  ye 
tell  me,"  sez  Oi,  when  she  sthopped  for  breath,  "  phat  ye  were 
doin'  when  yez  war  a  shlip  av  a  gerrel  if  yez  didn't  larn  to  rade— 
playin'  hookey?"  sez  Oi.  "Oh/'  sez  she,  "that  war  only  plain, 
straightaway  radin'  that  anywan  cud  undhersthand,"  sez  she. 
"Sure  Oi  wants  to  learn  to  rade  the  way  no  wan  livin'  will  know 
phat's  it  all  about,"  sez  she.  Wid  that  Oi  tould  her  to  shut  up  an' 
go  an'  find  as  big  a  fool  as  herself  to  talk  wid,  and  to  kape  her  quoit 
Oi  tould  her  she  could  take  phat  she  call  a  coorse  in  electrocution. 
Not  very  long  afther  Moichael  kem  running  down  the  sthairs. 
"  Rin  for  yer  loife,  Julia,"  sez  he ;  "  Mary  Ellen  hov  a  fit !  "  So  up- 
sthairs  Oi  goes,  and  there  sthand  Mary  Ellen  in  the  middle  av  the 
flure,  shakin'  loike  she  hov  the  ager.  "Oh,  Mary  Ellen,  dear,".Oi 
croied,  "  wait  till  your  mother  gets  to  ye !  "  "  Oh,  don't  be  fright- 
ened," sez  she ;  "  there's  not  a  haporth  the  matter  wid  me,"  sez  she. 
"  Oi'm  only  dacomposin'."  "  Well,  then,  I  think  that's  quoit 
enough,"  sez  Oi ;  "  dacomposin'  before  you're  did.  Sure  if  yez 
want  to  doy,  phy  don't  yez  go  to  bed  and  doy  like  a  Christian,"  sez 
Oi,  "an'  not  be  stannin'  there  shakin'  the  finger  nails  aff  ye,"  sez 
Oi.  An'  wid  that  she  begin  sthritchin'  herself  as  if  she'd  shlept  for 
a  wake,  then  she  bind  herself  over  double,  like  a  pace  av  an  ould 
carpet  thrun  over  the  back  fince.  "  An'  now  will  yez  tell  me,"  sez 
Oi,  "phat  is  the  manin'  av  all  this?"  sez  Oi.  "Oh,"  sez  Mary 
Ellen,  "  thims  me  exercoises,"  sez  she.  "  Well,  now,"  sez  Oi,  "  it 
would  be  far  more  to  your  credit,"  sez  Oi,  "  if  yez  be  in  nade  av 
exercoise  to  go  down  sthairs  and  foind  it  over  the  washtub,"  sez 
Oi,  "  an'  not  be  lavin'  your  poor  ould  mother  smash  her  bones," 
sez  Oi. 

But  the  gerrels  is  good  for  nothin'  at  all  nowadays  but  thram- 
pooshin'  the  sthreets  wid  bandy-legged  jude  boys  wid  a  jack-in-the- 
pot  rose  in  their  coats,  the  toime  av  day  in  their  pockets  an'  very 
little  else.  And  then  she  begin  drawin'  an  the  wursht  lookin'  moog 
Oi  iver  laid  me  two  eyes  an,  an'  she  sthannin'  in  front  av  the  lookin'- 
glass.     "  Don't   do  that   agin/'   sez   Oi ;   "  don't   do   that   agin ! " 


'  AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  45 

"  Thot's  phat  Oi'm  larnin'  at  the  school  av  expressin',"  sez  she. 
"  Well,  ye'd  betther  sthop  that,"  sez  Oi,  "  or  they'll  very  soon  be 
expressin'  you,"  sez  Oi,  "  to  Mr.  Bloomindale's  asoylum,"  sez  Oi, 
"  phere  ye'll  not  be  at  all  lonely  for  want  av  paple  makin'  oop  the 
same  koind  av  faces." 


The  Three  Fishers* 

<By  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

THREE  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West — 
Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down- 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best, 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town; 
For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning:. 


Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and  brown ; 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning-. 


Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam,  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep — 

And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep — 
And  good-by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


46  WERNER'S   READINGS 

How  'Bateese  Came  Home* 

By    WILLIAM  HENRY  VRUMMOND,   MJD. 

W'EN  I  was  a  young  boy  on  de  farm,  dat's  twenty  year  ago 
I  have  wan  frien'  he's  leev  near  me,  call  Jean  Bateese 
Trudeau 
An  offen  w'en  we  are  alone,  we  lak  for  spik  about 
De  tarn  w'en  we  was  come  beeg  man,  wit'  moustache  on  our  mout'. 

Bateese  is  get  it  on  hees  head,  he's  too  moche  educate 

For  mak'  de  habitant  farmerre — he  better  go  on  State — ■ 

An'  so  wan  summer  evening  we  're  drivin'  home  de  cow 

He's  tole  me  all  de  whole  beez-nesse — jus'  lak  you  hear  me  now. 

"  Wat's  use  mak'  foolish  on  de  farm  ?  dere's  no  good  chances  lef ' 
An'  all  de  tarn  you  be  poor  man — you  know  dat's  true  you'se'l ; 
We  never  get  no  fun  at  all — don't  never  go  on  spree 
Onless  we  pass  on  'noder  place,  an'  mak'  it  some  monee. 

"I  go  on  Les  Etats  Unis,  I  go  dere  right  away 

An'  den  mebber  on  ten-twelve  year,  I  be  riche  man  some  day, 

An'  w'en  I  mak'  de  large  fortune,  I  come  back  I  s'pose 

Wit'  Yankee  famme  from  off  de  State,  an'  monee  on  my  clothes. 

"  I  tole  you  somet'ing  else  also — mon  cher  Napoleon 

I  get  de  grande  majorite,  for  go  on  parliament 

Den  buil'  fine  house  on  borde  l'eau — near  w'ere  de  church  is  stand 

More  finer  dan  de  Presbytere,  w'en  I  am  come  riche  man !  " 

I  say,  "  For  w'at  you  spik  lak  dat  ?  you  must  be  gone  crazee 
Dere's  plaintee  feller  on  de  State,  more  smarter  dan  you  be. 
Beside  she's  not  so  healtee  place,  an'  if  you  mak'  l'argent, 
You  spen'  it  jus'  lak  Yankee  man,  an'  not  lak  habitant. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  47 

"  For  me  Bateese !    I  tole  you  dis ;  I'm  very  satisfy — 
De  bes'  man  don't  live  too  long  tarn,  some  day,  ba  Gosh !  he  die — 
An'  s'pose  you  got  good  trotter  horse,  an'  nice  famme  Canadienne 
Wit'  plaintee  on  de  house  for  eat — w'at  more  you  want,  ma  frien'  ?  " 

But  Bateese  have  it  all  mak'  up,  I  can't  stop  him  at  all 
He's  buy  de  seconde  classe  tiquette,  for  gon  on  Central  Fall — 
An'  wit'  two-t'ree  some  more  de  boy, — w'at  tink  de  sam'  he  do 
Pass  on  de  train  de  very  nex'  wick,  was  lef  Riviere  du  Loup. 

Wall !  mebbe  fifteen  year  or  more,  since  Bateese  go  away 
I  fin'  myself,  Riviere  du  Loup,  wan  cole,  cole  winter  day 
De  quick  express  she  come  hooraw !  but  stop  de  soon  she  can 
An'  beeg  swell  feller  jomp  off  car,  dat's  boss  by  nigger  man. 

He's  dressim  on  de  premiere  classe,  an'  got  new  suit  of  clothes 
Wit'  long  moustache  dat  stickim  out,  de  'noder  side  hees  nose 
Fine  gol'  watch  chain — nice  portmanteau — an'  long,  long  overcoat 
Wit'  beaver  hat — dat's  Yankee  style — an'  red  tie  on  hees  t'roat — 

I  say,  "  Hello  Bateese !   Hello  !   Comment  9a  va  mon  vieux  ?  " 
He  say,  "  Excuse  to  me,  ma  frien',  I  t'ink  I  don't  know  you." 
1  say,  "  She's  very  curis  t'ing,  you  are  Bateese  Trudeau, 
Was  raise  on  jus'  sam'  place  wit'  me,  dat's  fifteen  year  ago?  " 

He  say,  "  Oh,  yass,  dat's  sure  enough — I  know  you  now  firs'  rate, 
But  I  forgot  mos'  all  ma  French  since  I  go  on  de  State. 
Dere's  'noder  t'ing  kip  on  your  head,  ma  frien'  dey  mus'  be  tole 
Ma  name's  Bateese  Trudeau  no  more,  but  John  B.  Waterhole !  " 

"  Hole  on  de  water's  "  fonny  name  for  man  w'at's  call  Trudeau, 
Ma  frien's  dey  all  was  spik  lak  dat,  an'  I  am  tole  heem  so — 
He  say,  "  Trudeau  an'  Waterhole  she's  jus'  about  de  sam' 
An'  if  you  go  for  leev  on  State,  you  must  have  Yankee  nam'." 

Den  we  invite  heem  come  wit'  us,  "  Hotel  du  Canadaw  " 
Were  he  was  treat  mos'  ev'ry  tarn,  but  can't  tak'  w'isky  blanc, 


48  WERNER'S   READINGS 

He  say  dat's  leetle  strong  for  man  jus'  come  off  Central  Fall, 
An'  "  tobac  Canayen  "  bedamme!  he  won't  smoke  dat  at  all! — 

But  fancy  drink  lak  "  Collings  John  "  de  way  he  put  it  down 
Was  long  tarn  since  I  don't  see  dat — I  t'ink  he's  going  drown ! 
An'  fine  cigars  cos'  five  cent  each,  an'  mak'  on  Trois-Rivieres, 
L'enfant !   He  smoke  beeg  pile  of  dem — for  monee  he  don't  care  !- 

I  s'pose  meself  it's  t'ree  o'clock  w'en  are  t'roo  dat  night 
Bateese,  hees  fader  come  for  heem,  an'  tak'  heem  home  all  right 
De  ole  man  say  Bateese  spik  French;  w'en  he  is  place  on  bed — 
An'  say  bad  word — but  w'en  he  wake — forget  it  on  hees  head — 

Wall !  all  de  winter  w'en  we  have  soiree  dat's  grande  affaire 
Bateese  Trudeau,  dit  Waterhole,  he  be  de  boss  man  dere — 
You  bet  he  have  beeg  tam,  but  w'en  de  spring  is  come  encore 
He's  buy  de  premiere  classe  tiquette  for  go  on  State  some  more. 

You  'member  w'en  de  hard  tam  come  on  Les  Etats  Unis 
An'  plaintee  Canayens  go  back  for  stay  deir  own  countree? 
Wall !  jus'  about  dat  tam  again  I  go  Riviere  du  Loup 
For  sole  me  two-t'ree  load  of  hay — mak'  leetle  visit  too — 

De  freight  train  she  is  jus'  arrive — only  ten  hour  delay — 
She  never  carry  passengaire — dat's  w'at  dey  always  say — 
I  see  poor  man  on  char  caboose— he's  got  heem  small  valise 
Begosh !    I  nearly  tak'  de  fit.     It  is — it  is  Bateese ! 

He  knew  me  very  well  dis  tam,  an'  say,  "  Bon  jour,  mon  vieux 
I  hope  you  know  Bateese  Trudeau  was  educate  wit'  you 
I'm  jus'  come  off  de  State  to  see  ma  familee  encore 
I  bus'  mesef  on  Central  Fall — I  don't  go  dere  no  more. 

"  I  got  no  monee — not  at  all — I'm  broke  it  up  for  sure — 
Dat's  locky  t'ing,  Napoleou,  de  brakeman  Joe  Latour 
He's  cousin  of  wan  frien'  of  me  call  Camille  Valiquette, 
Conductor  too's  good  Canayen — don't  ax  me  no  tiquette." 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  49 

I  tak'  Bateese  wit'  me  once  more  "  Hotel  du  Canadaw  " 
An'  he  was  glad  for  get  de  chance  drink  some  good  w'isky  blanc ! 
Dat's  warm  heem  up'  an'  den  he  eat  mos'  ev'ryt'ing  he  see, 
I  watch  de  w'ole  beez-nesse  mese'f — Monjee!  he  was  hongree! 

Madame  Charette  wat's  kip  de  place  get  very  much  excite 
For  see  de  many  pork  an'  bean  Bateese  put  out  of  sight 
Du  pain  dore' — potato  pie — an'    noder  t'ing  be  dere 
But  w'en  Bateese  is  get  heem  t'roo — dey  go  I  don't  know  w'ere. 

It  don't  tak'  long  for  tole  de  news  "  Bateese  come  off  de  State  " 
An'  purty  soon  we  have  beeg  crowd  lak  village  she's  en  fete 
Bonhomme  Maxime  Trudeau  hese'f,  he's  comin'  wit'  de  pries' 
An'  pass  heem  on  de  "  Room  for  eat "  w'ere  he  is  see  Bateese. 

Den  ev'rybody  feel  it  glad,  for  watch  the  embrasser 

An'  bimeby  de  ole  man  spik   "  Bateese  you  here  for  stay  ?  " 

Bateese  he's  cry  lak  beeg  bebe,  "  Ba  j'eux  rester  ici. 

An'  if  I  never  see  de  State,  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  me." 

"  Correc',"  Maxime  is  say  right  off,  "  I  place  you  on  de  farm 
For  help  your  poor  old  fader,  won't  do  you  too  moche  harm, 
Please  come  wit'  me  on  Magasin,  I  feex  you  up — ba  oui 
An'  den  you  ready  for  go  home  an'  see  de  familee." 

Wall !  w'en  de  ole  man  an'  Bateese  come  off  de  Magasin 
Bateese  is  los'  hees  Yankee  clothes — he's  dress  lak  Canayan 
Wit'  bottes  sauvages — ceinture  fleche— an'  coat  wit'  capuchon 
An'  spik  Frangais  au  naturel,  de  sam'  as  habitant. 

^c  sfc  ^  ;■:  jjc  ^c  J-: 

I  see  Bateese  de  oder  day,  hee's  work  hees  fader's  place 
I  t'ink  mese'd  he's  satisfy — i  see  dat  on  heese  face 
'He  say  "  I  got  no  use  for  State,  mon  cher  Napoleon 
Kebeck  she's  good  enough  for  me — Hooraw  pour  Canadaw  !  °* 


50  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Advantages  of  Adversity  to  the  Pilgrim 

Fathers* 

By  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

IT  is  a  principle  amply  borne  out  by  the  history  of  the  great  and 
powerful  nations  of  the  earth,  and  by  that  of  none  more  than 
the  country  of  which  we  speak,  that  the  best  fruits  and  choicest 
action  of  the  commendable  qualities  of  the  national  character  are 
to  be  found  on  the  side  of  the  oppressed  few,  and  not  of  the  tri- 
umphant many.  Never  was  this  truth  more  clearly  illustrated  than 
in  the  settlement  of  New  England. 

Could  a  common  calculation  of  policy  have  dictated  the  terms 
of  that  settlement,  no  doubt  our  foundations  would  have  been  laid 
beneath  the  royal  smile.  Convoys  and  navies  would  have  been 
solicited  to  waft  our  fathers  to  the  coast;  armies,  to  defend  the 
infant  communities;  and  the  patronage  of  princes  and  great  men, 
to  defend  their  interests  in  the  councils  of  the  mother  country. 
Happy,  that  our  fathers  enjoyed  no  such  patronage;  happy,  that 
our  foundations  were  silently  and  deeply  cast  in  quiet  insignificance, 
beneath  a  charter  of  banishment,  persecution,  and  contempt;  so 
that,  when  the  royal  arm  was  at  length  outstretched-  against  us, 
instead  of  a  submissive  child,  tied  down  by  former  graces,  it  found 
a  youthful  giant  in  the  land,  born  among  hardships,  and  nourished 
on  the  rocks,  indebted  for  no  favors,  and  owing  no  duty. 

From  the  dark  portals  of  the  star  chamber,  and  in  the  stern 
text  of  the  acts  of  uniformity,  the  Pilgrims  received  a  commission 
more  efficient  than  any  that  ever  bore  the  royal  seal.  Their  ban- 
ishment to  Holland  was  fortunate ;  the  decline  of  their  little  com- 
pany in  the  strange  land  was  fortunate;  the  difficulties  which  1;hey 
experienced  in  getting  the  royal  consent  to  banish  themselves  to 
this  wilderness  were  fortunate ;  all  the  tears  and  heart-breakings  of 
that  ever-memorable  parting  at  Delfthaven  had  the  happiest  in- 
fluence on  the  rising  destinies  of  New  England.  These  rough  touches 
of  fortune  brushed  off  the  light,  uncertain,  selfish  spirits. 

One  is  touched  at  the  story  of  the  long,  cold,  and  dangerous 
autumnal  passage ;  of  the  landing  on  the  inhospitable  rocks  at  this 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.   26.  51 

dismal  season;  where  they  are  deserted  before  long  by  the  ship 
which  had  brought  them,  and  which  seemed  their  only  hold  upon 
the  world  of  fellow-men — a  prey  to  the  elements  and  to  want,  and 
fearfully  ignorant  of  the  power  and  the  temper  of  the  savage  tribes 
that  filled  the  unexplored  continent  upon  whose  verge  they  had  ven- 
tured.    But  all  this  wrought  together  for  good. 

These  trials  of  wandering  and  exile,  of  the  ocean,  the  winter, 
the  wilderness,  and  the  savage  foe,  were  the  final  assurance  of 
success.  They  kept  far  away  from  the  enterprise  all  patrician  soft- 
ness, all  hereditary  claims  to  preeminence.  No  effeminate  nobility 
crowded  into  the  dark  and  austere  ranks  of  the  Pilgrims.  No  Carr 
nor  Villiers  desired  to  conduct  the  ill-provided  band  of  despised 
Puritans.  No  well-endowed  clergy  were  desirous  to  quit  their 
cathedrals,  and  set  up  a  splendid  hierarchy  in  the  frozen  wilder- 
ness. No  craving  governors  were  anxious  to  be  sent  over  to  our 
cheerless  El  Dorados  of  ice  and  of  snow. 

Methinks  I  see  it  now,  that  one  solitary,  adventurous  vessel, 
the  Mayflower  of  a  forlorn  hope,  freighted  with  the  prospects  of 
a  future  state,  and  bound  across  the  unknown  sea.  I  behold  it  pur- 
suing, with  a  thousand  misgivings,  the  uncertain,  the  tedious  voyage. 
Suns  rise  and  set,  and  weeks  and  months  pass,  and  winter  sur- 
prises them  on  the  deep,  but  brings  them  not  the  sight  of  the  wished- 
for  shore.  I  see  them  now,  scantily  supplied  with  provisions, 
crowded  almost  to  suffocation  in  their  ill-stored  prison,  delayed 
by  calms,  pursuing  a  circuitous  route;  and  now,  driven  in  fury 
before  the  raging  tempest,  in  their  scarcely  seaworthy  vessel. 

The  awful  voice  of  the  storm  howls  through  the  rigging.  The 
laboring  masts  seem  straining  from  their  base;  the  dismal  sound  of 
the  pumps  is  heard ;  the  ship  leaps,  as  it  were,  madly  from  billow  to 
billow ;  the  ocean  breaks,  and  settles  with  ingulfing  floods  over  the 
floating  deck,  and  beats  with  deadening  weight  against  the  stag- 
gered vessel.  I  see  them,  escaped  from  these  perils,  pursuing  their 
all  but  desperate  undertaking,  and  landed  at  last,  after  five  months' 
passage,  on  the  ice-clad  rocks  of  Plymouth,  weak  and  exhausted 
from  the  voyage,  poorly  armed,  scantily  provisioned,  without 
shelter,  without  means,  surrounded  by  hostile  tribes. 

Shut  now  the  volume  of  history,  and  tell  me,  on  any  principle 


52  WERNER'S   READINGS 

of  human  probability,  what  shall  be  the  fate  of  this  handful  of  ad- 
venturers. Tell  me,  man  of  military  science,  in  how  many  months 
were  they  all  swept  off  by  the  thirty  savage  tribes  enumerated 
within  the  boundaries  of  New  England?  Tell  me,  politician,  how 
long  did  this  shadow  of  a  colony,  on  which  your  conventions  and 
treaties  had  not  smiled,  languish  on  the  distant  coast?  Student  of 
history,  compare  for  me  the  baffled  projects,  the  deserted  settle- 
ments, the  abandoned  adventures  of  other  times,  and  find  the  par- 
allel of  this. 

Was  it  the  winter's  storm,  beating  upon  the  houseless  heads  of 
women  and  children?  Was  it  hard  labor  and  spare  meals?  Was 
it  disease?  Was  it  the  tomahawk?  Was  it  the  deep  malady  of  a 
blighted  hope,  a  ruined  enterprise,  and  a  broken  heart,  aching  in 
its  last  moments  at  the  recollection  of  the  loved  and  left,  beyond 
the  sea? — was  it  some  or  all  of  these  united  that  hurried  this  for- 
saken company  to  their  melancholy  fate?  And  is  it  possible  that 
neither  of  these  causes,  that  not  all  combined,  were  able  to  blast 
this  bud  of  hope?  Is  it  possible  that  from  a  beginning  so  feeble,  so 
frail,  so  worthy,  not  so  much  of  admiration  as  of  pity,  there  have 
gone  forth  a  progress  so  steady,  a  growth  so  wonderful,  a  reality 
so  important,  a  promise  yet  to  be  fulfilled  so  glorious? 


The  Dream-Ship* 

By  EUGENE  FIELD. 

WHEN  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 
Along  the  midnight  skies — 
As  though  it  were  a  wandering  cloud — 
The  ghostly  dream-ship  flies. 

) 
An  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  helm, 

An  angel  stands  at  the  prow, 
And  an  angel  stands  at  the  dream-ship's  side 
With  a  rue-wreath  on  her  brow. 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  53 

The  other  angels,  silver-crowned, 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
And  the  angel  with  the  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 

The  dreams  they  fall  on  rich  and  poor ; 

They  fall  on  young  and  old; 
And  some  are  dreams  of  poverty, 

And  some  are  dreams  of  gold. 

And  some  are  dreams  that  thrill  with  joy, 

And  some  that  melt  to  tears ; 
Some  are  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  love, 

And  some  of  the  old  dead  years. 

On  rich  and  poor  alike  they  fall 

Alike  on  young  and  old, 
Bringing'  to  slumbering  earth  their  joys 

And  sorrows  manifold. 

The  friendless  youth  in  them  shall  do 

The  deeds  of  mighty  men, 
And  drooping  age  shall  feel  the  grace 

Of  buoyant  youth  again.  / 

The  king  shall  be  a  beggarman — 

The  pauper  be  a  king — ■ 
In  that  revenge  or  recompense 

The  dream-ship  dreams  to  bring. 

So  ever  downward  float  the  dreams 

That  are  for  all  and  me, 
And  there  is  never  mortal  man, 

Can  solve  that  mystery. 

But  ever  onward  in  its  course 
Alone:  the  haunted  skies — 


54  WERNER'S   READINGS  ' 

As  though  it.  were  a  cloud  astray — 
The  ghostly  dream-ship  files. 

Two  angels  with  their  silver  crowns 
Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 

And  an  angel  with  a  wreath  of  rue 
Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 


When  Pa  Takes  Care  of  Me. 

By  FRANCIS  C.  WILLIAMS. 

WHEN  Pa  takes  care  of  me, 
He  says  to  Ma,  "  By  Jing! 
It  seems  that  everything 
Comes  on  me  when  I've  got  the  most  to  do, 
But  I  suppose  I've  got  to  get  it  through 
With ;  so  you  needn't  fuss  one  bit  about 
Him;  I'll  take  charge  of  him  while  you  are  out." 
But  Ma  makes  him  repeat  all  she  has  said 
About  what  he's  to  do ;  guess  she's  afraid 
To  let  him  try  his  way 
Of  watching  me,  the  day 
When  Pa  takes  care  of  me. 

When  Pa  takes  care  of  me, 

He  puts  me  on  a  rug, 

Gives  me  a  kiss  and  hug, 

Then  brings  in  every  pillow  he  can  find, 

And  piles  them  up  in  front,  at  sides,  behind 

Me :    "  So  that  you  can't  hurt  yourself,"  he  says. 

And  then  he  gets  my  picture-books,  and  lays 

Them  down  beside  me,  and  my  blocks  and  toys, 

And  says :    "  Now,  go  ahead ;  make  all  the  noise 

You  want  to;  I  don't  care." 

And  I  sit  there  and  stare, 

When  Pa  takes  care  of  me. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  55 

When  Pa  takes  care  of  me, 

No  book  or  toy  or  game 

Seems,  somehow,  just  the  same. 

And,  by  and  by,  I'm  through  with  every  one, 

And  when  I  cry,  Pa  says,  "  Have  you  begun 

Already?    What's  the  matter,  anyway? 

There's  everything  you  own!    Why  don't  you  play? 

Stop  crying  now!    You  won't?    Well,  what  is  wrong? 

Come  now !   I'll  sing."    And  then  he  starts  some  song 

About  "  Bye,  Baby  Bye !  " 

And  I  lie  flat  and  cry, 

When  Pa  takes  care  of  me. 

When  Pa  takes  care  of  me, 

He  grabs  me  up  at  last, 

And  starts  to  walk,  real  fast, 

And  talks  to  me,  and  pats  my  back,  and  tries 

To  act  as  if  he  liked  it;  but  he  sighs, 

And  sighs,  and  keeps  a-lookin'  at  the  clock, 

And  out  of  the  window,  up  and  down  the  block, 

For  sight  of  Ma ;  and  when  she  does  come  in, 

She  grabs  me  quick,  and  says,  "  It  is  a  sin !  " 

And  Pa  looks  mad,  and — I — 

I'm  glad  the  time's  gone  by 

When  Pa  takes  care  of  me. 


Rejoicing  upon  the  New  Years  Coming 

of  Age* 

<By  CHARLES  LAMB. 

THE  Old  Year  being  dead,  and  the  New  Year  coming  of  age, 
which  he  does,  by  calendar  law  as  soon  as  the  breath  is  out 
of  the  old  gentleman's  body,  nothing  would  serve  the  young  spark 
but  he  must  give  a  dinner  upon  the  occasion,  to  which  all  the  Days 
in  the  year   were   invited.     The  Festivals,   whom  he   deputed  as 


56    t  WERNER'S   READINGS 

stewards,  were  mightily  taken  with  the  notion.  They  had  been 
engaged  time  out  of  mind,  they  said,  in  providing  mirth  and  good 
cheer  for  mortals  below,  and  it  was  time  they  should  have  a  taste 
of  their  own  bounty. 

It  was  stiffly  debated  among  them  whether  the  Facts  should  be 
admitted.  Some  said  the  appearance  of'  such  lean,  starved  guests, 
with  their  mortified  faces,  would  pervert  the  ends  of  the  meeting. 
But  the  objection  was  overruled  by  Christmas  Day,  who  had  a 
design  upon  Ash  Wednesday  (as  you  shall  hear),  and  a  mighty 
desire  to  see  how  the  old  Dominie  would  behave  himself  in  his 
cups.  Only  the  Vigils  were  requested  to  come  with  their  lanterns 
to  light  the  gentlefolk  home  at  night. 

All  the  Days  came.  Covers  were  laid  for  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  guests  at  the  principal  table ;  with  an  occasional  knife 
and  fork  at  the  sideboard  for  the  Twenty-Ninth  of  February. 

Cards  of  invitation  had  been  issued.  The  carriers  were  the 
Hours ;  twelve  little  merry  whirligig  foot  pages  that  went  round 
and  found  out  the  persons  invited,  with  the  exception  of  Easter 
Day,  Shrove  Tuesday,  and  a  few  such  movables,  who  had  lately 
shifted  their  quarters. 

Well,  they  all  met  at  last,  foul  Days,  fine  Days,  all  sorts  of 
Days,  and  a  rare  din  they  made  of  it.  There  was  nothing  but  "  Hail, 
fellow  Day !  well  met !  "  only  Lady  Day  seemed  a  little  scornfuL 
Yet  some  said  Twelfth  Day  cut  her  out,  for  she  came  all  royal  and 
glittering  and  Epiphanous.  The  rest  came  in  green,  some  in  white, 
but  Old  Lent  and  his  family  were  not  yet  out  of  mourning.  Rainy 
Days  came  in  dripping,  and  Sunshiny  Days  laughing.  Wedding 
Day  was  there  in  marriage  finery.  Pay  Day  came  late,  and  Dooms- 
day sent  word  he  might  be  expected. 

April  Fool  took  upon  himself  to  marshal  the  guests,  and  May 
Day,  with  that  sweetness  peculiar  to  her,  proposed  the  health  of 
the  host.  This  being  done,  the  lordly  New  Year  from  the  upper 
end  of  the  table  returned  thanks.  Ash  Wednesday,  being  now  called 
upon  for  a  song-,  struck  up  a  carol,  which  Christmas  Day  had  taught 
him.  Shrovetide,  Lord  Mayor's  Day,  and  April  Fool  next  joined 
in  a  glee,  in  which  all  the  Days,  chiming  in,  made  a  merry  burden. 

All  this  while  Valentine's  Day  kept  courting  pretty  May,  who 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  57 

sat  next  him,  slipping  amorous  billet-doux  under  the  table  till  the 
Dog  Days  began  to  be  jealous  and  to  bark  and  rage  exceedingly. 
At  last  the  Days  called  for  their  cloaks  and  great-coats,  and 
took  their  leaves.  Shortest  Day  went  off  in  a  deep  black  fog  that 
wrapped  the  little  gentleman  all  round.  Two  Vigils — so  watchmen 
are  called  in  Heaven — saw  Christmas  Day  safe  home ;  they  had 
been  used  to  the  business  before.  Another  Vigil — a  stout,  sturdy 
patrol,  called  the  Eve  of  St.  Christopher — seeing  Ash  Wednesday 
in  a  condition  little  better  than  he  should  be,  e'en  whipt  him  over 
his  shoulders,  pick-a-pack  fashion,  and  he  went  floating  home  sing- 
ing: 

".On  the  bat's  back  do  I  fly," 

and  a  number  of  old  snatches  besides.  Longest  Day  set  off  west- 
ward in  beautiful  crimson  and  gold;  the  rest,  some  in  one  fashion, 
some  in  another ;  but  Valentine  and  pretty  May  took  their  departure 
together  in  one  of  the  prettiest  silvery  twilights  a  Lover's  Day 
could  wish  to  set  in. 


c/L  Y/altz- Quadrille. 

<Sy   ELLA    WHEELE%  WILCOX. 

THE  band  was  playing  a  waltz-quadrille; 
I  felt  as  light  as  a  wind-blown  feather 
As  we  floated  away  at  the  caller's  will 

Through  die  intricate  mazy  dance  together. 
Like  mimic  armies  our  lines  were  meeting,. 
Slowly  advancing,  and  then  retreating, 

All  decked  in  their  bright  array ; 
And  back  and  forth  to  the  music's  rhyme 
We  moved  together,  and  all  the  time 

I  knew  you  were  going  away. 


53  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  fold  of  your  strong  arm  sent  a  thrill 

From  heart  to  brain  as  we  gently  glided, 
Like  leaves,  on  the  wave  of  that  waltz-quadrille, 

Parted,  met,  and  again  divided — 
You  drifting  one  way,  and  I  another; 
Then  suddenly  turning  and  facing  each  other ; 

Then  off  in  the  blithe  chassee; 
Then  airily  back  to  our  places  swaying, 
While  every  beat  of  the  music  seemed  saying 

That  you  were  going  away. 

I  said  to  my  heart :    "  Let  us  take  our  fill 

Of  mirth,  and  music,  and  love,  and  laughter; 
For  it  all  must  end  with  this  waltz-quadrille,. 

And  life  will  be  never  the  same  life  after. 
Oh,  that  the  caller  might  go  on  calling, 
Oh,  that  the  music  might  go  on  falling 

Like  a  shower  of  silver  spray, 
While  we  whirled  on  to  the  vast  Forever^ 
Where  no  heart  breaks,  and  no  ties  sever, 

And  no  one  goes  away." 

A  clamor,  a  crash,  and  the  band  was  still — 

'Twas  the  end  of  the  dream  and  the  end  of  the  measure  *7 
The  last  low  notes  of  that  waltz-quadrille, 

Seemed  like  a  dirge  o'er  the  death  of  Pleasure. 
You  said  good-night,  and  the  spell  was  over — 
Too  warm  for  a  friend,  and  too  cold  for  a  lover — 

There  was  nothing  else  to  say; 
But  the  lights  looked  dim,  and  the  dancers  weary, 
And  the  music  was  sad,  and  the  hall  was  dreary, 

After  you  went  away. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  59 

44 Death  Has  Crowned  Him  as  a  Martyr/' 

<By   ELLA    WHEELER    WILCOX. 

IN  the  midst  of  sunny  waters,  lo !  the  mighty  Ship  of  State 
Staggers,  bruised  and  torn  and  wounded  by  a  derelict  of  fate, 
One  that  drifted  from  its  moorings,  in  the  anchorage  of  hate. 

On  the  deck  our  noble  Pilot,  in  the  glory  of  his  prime, 
Lies  in  wo-impelling  silence,  dead  before  his  hour  or  time, 
Victim  of  a  mind  self-centred,  a  godless  fool  of  crime. 

One  of  earth's  dissension-breeders,  one  of  Hate's  unreasoning  tools, 
In  the  annals  of  the  ages,  when  the  world's  hot  anger  cools, 
He  who   sought   for  crime's  distinction  shall  be  known  as   Chief 
of  Fools. 

In  the  annals  of  the  ages,  he  who  had  no  thought  of  fame 
(Keeping  on  the  path  of  duty,  caring  not  for  praise  or  blame), 
Close  beside  the  deathless  Lincoln,  writ  in  light,  will  shine  his  name. 

Youth  proclaimed  him  as  a  hero ;  Time,  a  statesman ;  Love,  a  man. 
Death  has  crowned  him  as  a  martyr,  so  from  goal  to  goal  he  ran, 
Knowing  all  the  sum  of  glory  that  a  human  life  may  span. 

He  was  chosen  by  the  people ;  not  an  accident  of  birth 
Made  him  ruler  of  a  nation,  but  his  own  intrinsic  worth. 
Fools  may  govern  over  kingdoms — not  republics  of  the  earth. 

He  has  raised  the  lover's  standard,  by  his  loyalty  and  faith. 

He  has  shown  how  virile  manhood  may  keep  free  from  Scandal's 

breath. 
He  has  gazed,  with  trust  unshaken,  in  the  awful  eyes  of  death. 

In  the  mighty  march  of  progress  he  has  sought  to  do  his  best. 

Let  his  enemies  be  silent,  as  we  lay  him  down  to  rest, 

And  may  God  assuage  the  anguish  of  one  suffering  woman's  breast. 


DO  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Lecture  Recital:  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox* 

By   GRACE  CB.   FAXON. 

IF  I  were  asked  my  favorite  poet  among  living  American  women 
I  should  unhesitatingly  answer,  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  and  I 
fancy  a  great  many  persons  similarly  placed  would  similarly  reply. 
I  shall  not  here  address  myself  to  the  task  of  trying  to  settle  the 
much-vexed  question  as  to  Mrs.  Wilcox's  rank  among  poets.  The 
most  varied  and  mutually  exclusive  opinions  are  held  and  confi- 
dently expressed  concerning  her.  Be  her  place  where  it  may,  few 
persons  will  deny  that  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  to-day  holds,  in  what 
may  be  fairly  called,  the  prime  of  her  womanhood,  a  scepter  and  an 
influence  unequal^d  by  any  other  living  poet. 

Her  popularity  was  not  reached  in  a  bound.  Day  by  day, 
week  by  week,  year  by  year  her  mastery  of  the  pen  has  grown  in 
completeness  until  now  a  legion  of  admirers  bow  before  the  power 
of  its  stroke. 

Ella  Wheeler  wrote  poetry  as  naturally  as  a  bird  sings.     The 

poetical  impulse  and  instinct  was  born  within  her  and  could  not  be 

crushed  out  by  even  her  inauspicious  surroundings.     She  says  of 

her  early  home,  a  humble  cottage  in  the  small  town  of  Windsor, 

three  miles  from  Madison,  Wisconsin : 

"This  is  the  place  that  I  love  the  best: 
A  little  brown  house,  like  a  ground-bird's  nest, 
Hid  among  grasses  and  vines  and  trees, 
Summer  retreat  of  the  birds  and  bees. 

"The  tenderest  light  that  ever  was  seen, 
Sifts  through  the  vine-made  window  screen — 
Sifts  and  quivers  and  flits  and  falls 
On  home-made  carpets  and  gray-hung  walls." 

Again  her  childhood  is  referred  to  in  "The  Room  Beneath  the 
Rafters." 

{Recite  "The  Room  Beneath  the  Rafters.") 

Ella  began  to  write  at  the  absurd  age  of  eight.     She  tells  the 

story  that  she  and  an  older  sister,  the  latter  very  pretty  and  a  great 

belle,  were  invited  to  a  party.    It  was  Ella's  first  real  party  and  she 

was  greatly  interested  in  it.    The  pretty  dresses,  flowers,  etc.,  made 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  61 

an  impression  on  her.  During  the  evening  she  observed  that  sev- 
eral of  the  young  men  became  jealous  of  her  sister,  and  she  over- 
heard some  conversation  on  the  subject.  This  impressed  her  youth- 
ful mind  so  strongly  that  she  could  not  forget  it.  In  the  garden  that 
surrounded  her  home  were  many  old-fashioned  flowers — holly- 
hocks, four-o'clocks,  larkspur,  and  a  host  of  favorites.  The  idea 
occurred  to  her  to  write  out  the  events  of  the  party,  using  the  flowers 
for  persons.  So  she  did.  This  was  her  first  attempt.  The  book 
was  in  chapters  like  a  regular  novel.  For  many  years  she  kept  it, 
but  in  moving  it  got  lost.  Several  months  later,  when  she  was 
nearly  nine,  she  wrote  her  second  book,  which  is  also  a  novel  of 
most  thrilling  description.  She  had  not  learned  to  write  when  she 
started  it,  so  the  opening  chapters  are  printed  in  child  script.  But 
her  brother  insisted  that  if  she  were  going  to  be  an  author  she 
should  learn  to  write ;  so  the  last  part  of  the  book  contains  her  very 
first  efforts  at  penmanship.  Noting  that  all  books  were  bound  in 
some  fashion,  she  surreptitiously  tore  paper  off  the  kitchen  wall  for 
covers.  The  wall  had  been  papered  by  the  family  and  consequently 
the  thick  home-made  paste  clung  to  the  bits  of  blue  paper.  Never- 
theless she  used  it,  and  has  the  book  to-day — a  valued  memento  not 
only  of  her  first  literary  efforts,  but  also  of  the  dear  old  home  life. 

At  fourteen  her  pieces  were  accepted  by  the  papers  and  brought 
remuneration,  and  by  the  time  she  was  eighteen  she  was  clothing 
herself  and  helping  to  furnish  and  brighten  up  the  sparely  deco- 
rated little  home.  Not  many  years  ago  a  publication  requesting 
American  women  of  letters  to  write  on  the  happiest  event  of  their 
girlhood,  brought  forth  an  article  from  Mrs.  Wilcox  from  which 
an  extract  is  here  quoted : 

"I  began  to  write  verse  and  prose  at  a  somewhat  immature  age, 
but  financial  returns  for  these  juvenile  effusions  did  not  enter  the 
mind  of  the  author  or  her  family  as  a  possible  event.  At  fourteen 
I  left  the  district  school.  A  family  conclave  was  held  some  time 
after  this,  and  it  was  decided  that  I  must  be  sent  away  to  school. 
I  returned  at  the  end  of  three  months,  tearful  and  troubled.  I  had 
learned  nothing  save  my  own  deficiencies  and  the  impossibility  of  a 
happy  life  at  boarding-school  with  an  insufficient  wardrobe. 

"The  only  lasting  impression  made  on  my  mind  by  my  school  ex- 


62  WERNER'S   READINGS 

perience  was  a  longing  for  pretty  gowns  and  a  desire  for  pleasure. 
I  knew  my  family  had  been  obliged  to  make  many  sacrifices  to  send 
me  to  school,  and  I  begged  those  sacrifices  to  cease,  and  was  al- 
lowed to  remain  at  home.  But  'What  shall  we  do  with  her?'  became 
more  and  more  the  question  in  the  family.  A  girl  who  lives  on  a 
prairie,  twelve  miles  from  nowhere,  who  dislikes  school  and  does 
not  know  the  multiplication  table,  and  has  no  money  or  practical 
knowledge  of  any  kind,  yet  with  an  enormous  vitality  and  an  imag- 
ination more  powerful  than  a  four-horse  team  may  well  cause  her 
family  some  concern  of  mind. 

"I  was  somewhere  past  sixteen  years  old  when  my  best  girl 
friend  asked  me  to  be  her  bridesmaid.  I  had  never  filled  such  an 
office,  and  the  thought  thrilled  me  beyond  expression.  The  bride 
was  to  wear  pearl  gray,  and  she  said  my  dress  must  be  a  shade 
darker  only  than  hers.  I  talked  it  over  with  my  mother,  who  had 
long  ago  given  up  all  ideas  of  procuring  anything  herself,  but  who 
could  not  so  easily  resign  herself  to  my  lack  of  wardrobe  and  pleas- 
ure. Ill  luck  and  misfortune  had  attended  the  family  ventures  that 
year.  I  lay  awake  in  the  night  and  saw  my  dream  of  pleasure,  the 
one  pleasure  of  the  season  offered  me,  vanish  in  the  darkness  of 
disappointment. 

"In  the  meantime  I  was  busy  with  my  beloved  writing.,  I  sent 
out  stories,  poems  and  essays  by  every  mail,  to  every  periodical 
whose  address  I  could  obtain.  And  one  bright  morning,  just  as  I 
had  relinquished  all  hope  of  the  pearl  gray  gown,  the  'happiest 
event  in  my  girlhood'  occurred.  The  Chimney  Corner  sent  me  a 
check  of  $10  in  payment  for  three  poems.  I  used  the  check  to 
buy  my  pearl  gray  gown,  which  I  had  longed  for  as  I  have  longed 
for  only  a  few  things  since. 

"And  when  the  wedding  occurred,  I  think  the  bridesmaid  was 
the  happiest  person  present,  not  excepting  even  bride  and  groom. 
Not  only  was  the  pearl  gray  gown  a  joy  for  that  one  occasion,  but 
its  purchase  answered  for  all  time  the  vexed  question  of  'What  will 
become  of  Ella?'  " 

When  a  young  girl  Ella  Wheeler  often  wrote  on  the  subject  of 
total  abstinence  and  the  poems  attracted  so  much  attention  that  they 
were  gathered  into  a  small  volume  entitled  "Drops  of  Water."    The 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  63 

copyright  was  sold  in  America  for  only  $50  and  for  £30  in  Eng- 
land. The  book  is  now  extinct,  but  Mrs.  Wilcox's  pen  is  still 
active  on  the  same  theme.  An  interesting  story  is  related  by  a 
gentleman  concerning  one  of  the  most  famous  of  her  temperance 
poems,  "The  Two  Glasses."  Shortly  after  its  publication  he  was 
in  a  New  York  hotel  bar-room  when  the  proprietor  of  the  place 
called  out  to  an  attendant,  "Bring  me  a  glass  of  water  and  a  glass 
of  red  wine,  please."  The  attendant  wonderingly  obeyed.  The 
proprietor  placed  the  glasses  side  by  side  on  the  bar,  and,  turning 
to  the  gentlemen  (the  relater  of  this  story  and  friends),  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  printed  bit  of  paper,  saying,  "Gentlemen,  here's 
one  of  the  finest  things  I  have  ever  read."  He  then  proceeded  to 
read  aloud  with  much  unction  "The  Two  Glasses." 
{Recite  "The   Two   Glasses.") 

Another  stirring  temperance  poem,  used  by  the  elocutionist 
even  more  frequently  than  "The  Two  Glasses,"  is  "The  Sign- 
Board." 

(Recite  "The  Sign-Board.") 

The  story  of  how  the  popular  "The  Waltz-Quadrille"  came  to 
be  written  is  thus  told  by  Mrs.  Wilcox  in  her  recently  published 
autobiography : 

"At  a  Thanksgiving  Eve  ball  I  recollect  waltzing  with  a  very 
good-looking  young  man  whom  I  met  there  for  the  first  time.  The 
band  played  a  Strauss  waltz.  As  we  floated  about  the  hall  I  thought 
to  myself,  Tf  I  were  desperately  in  love  with  this  man  and  he  cared 
for  some  one  else,  this  waltz  would  sound  like  a  dirge  to  me.'  So 
the  next  day  I  wrote  a  little  poem  called  'The  Dirge'  (which  paid  for 
my  slippers),  which  was  widely  copied. 

"  'The  Waltz-Quadrille,'  one  of  my  most  popular  early  verses, 
was  similarly  conceived.  I  had  promised  che  quadrille  at  a  com- 
mencement-ball at  Madison  University  to  a  man  on  the  eve  of  a 
journey,  who  was  unable  to  find  me  when  the  number  was  called. 
Although  I  did  not  have  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  with  him,  I  wrote 
the' poem  and  sent  him  a  copy  of  it,  saying,  'This  is  the  way  I 
should  have  felt  had  I  been  in  love  with  yoit  and  had  I  danced  the 
waltz-quadrille  with  you  just  before  your  departure  from  Madi- 
son.' " 


64  WERNER'S   READINGS 

{Recite  "The  Waltz-Quadrille.") 
Perhaps  the  most  famous  of  all  this  great  writer's  famous  works 
is  that  philosophical  little  poem,  whose  proof  of  Mrs.  Wilcox's  au- 
thorship was  established  after  a  much  heated  controversy — "Soli- 
tude." 

{Recite  "Solitude.") 
A  strong  moral  purpose  exists  in  many  of  Mrs.  Wilcox's  writ- 
ings. We  have  considered  the  temperance  subject.  A  more  vigor- 
ous protest  does  not  exist  against  society's  unmerciful  attitude  to- 
ward women  whose  waywardness  is  quickly  remitted  in  men,  than 
her  poem,  "The  Two  Sinners." 

{Recite  "The  Two  Sinners.") 
A  prominent  actress,  once  of  America,  but  now  making  her 
permanent  home  in  London,  chose  for  recitation  at  a  church  service 
Mrs.  Wilcox's  beautiful  poem  on  the  late  Queen.    That  an  Ameri- 
can author's  work  should  be  selected  in  preference  to  the  many 
eulogies  written  by  the  Queen's  own  subjects  cannot  be  regarded 
less  than  a  great  compliment.     Mrs.  Wilcox  wrote  this  poem  in 
London,  whence  she  had  gone  to  witness  the  funeral  pageant. 
{Recite  "The  Queen's  Last  Ride") 
Equally  grand  is  the  tribute  she  has  paid  our  martyred  Presi- 
dent.    The  nation's  sorrow  is  nobly  voiced  by  this  poet-laureate  of 
America  in  "Death  Has  Crowned  Him  as  a  Martyr." 

{Recite  "Death  Has  Crowned  Him  as  a  Martyr") 
And  hand  in  hand  with  this  last  recited  poem  should  go  that 
stirring  patriotic  piece  of  hers,  "A  Plea."  Surely  no  more  elo- 
quent discourse  on  the  restriction  of  immigration  was  ever  written 
and  its  force  at  this  mourning,  thoughtful  period  will  be  keenly 
recognized. 

{Recite  "A  Plea.") 
Love,  the  poet's  common  theme,  Mrs.  Wilcox  treats  with  a  com- 
bination of  exquisite  delicacy  and  tropical  richness.     She  gives  a 
definition  of  this  intangible  emotion  in  the  poem,  "What  Love  Is." 
{Recite  "What  Love  Is.") 
"My  Ships"  is  another  love  poem  that  has  won  great  distinction. 

{Recite  "My  Ships.") 
A  number  of  Mrs.  Wilcox's  poems  imbue  the  inanimate  with  hu- 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  65 

man  passions.     A  particularly  fascinating  song  belonging  to  this 

group  is  "The  Birth  of  the  Opal." 

{Recite  "The  Birth  of  the  Opal") 

Upon  her  marriage  Mrs.  Wilcox  gladly  exchanged  her  country 

home  for  a  city  one.    Unlike  most  poets,  she  does  not  care  for  the 

country.     She  loves  the  hum  of  a  busy  mart  where,  as  she  says : 

"I  seem  to  read  humanity's  great  heart 
And  share  its  hopes,  its  pleasures  and  its  pains." 

She  wishes  even  her  last  resting  place  to  be  amid  the  city's 
hum,  for  in  "My  Grave"  she  enjoins: 

"      .      sfi  y&  ¥  *  *  *  ]pf 

No  cemetery  engulf  me — no  lone  grot, 

Where  the  great  palpitating  world  comes  not, 

Save  when,  with  heart  bowed  down,  and  eyelids  wet, 

It  pays  its  last  melancholy  debt, 

To  some  outjourneying  pilgrim.     May  my  lot 

Be  rather  to  lie  in  some  much-used  spot, 

Where  human  life,  with  all  its  noise  and  fret, 

Throbs  on  about  me." 

As  may  be  inferred,  Mrs.  Wilcox  loves  people.  In  relation  with 
those  persons  with  whom  she  comes  in  contact,  whether  of  high 
or  humble  station  in  life,  her  attitude  is  that  of  sympathetic  listener, 
friend  and,  if  need  be,  reformer.  She  is  keenly  interested  in  every 
one's  personality.  Confidences  and  secrets  are  invariably  entrusted 
to  her,  and  many  of  her  poems  have  been  made  from  this  unsought 
material.  She  inspires  force  and  energy  in  others  from  her  mere 
presence.  She  firmly  believes  in  the  power  of  good  over  evil,  of 
light  over  darkness,  as  shown  in  her  poem,  "Whatever  Is — Is  Best." 
(Recite  "Whatever  Is— Is  Best.") 

One  of  the  most  stately  of  all  Mrs.  Wilcox's  writings  and  one 
that  she  considers  among  her  best  efforts,  is  "High  Noon." 
(Recite  "High  Noon.") 

In  manner  Mrs.  Wilcox  is  animated  and  charming  and  looks 
much  younger  than  her  thirty-six  years.  Her  height  is  medium, 
she  has  brown  hair  tinted  with  red,  and  her  eyes  are  blue.  She 
entertains  a  great  deal  and  exceedingly  well.  It  is  good  to  think 
of  this  lovely  woman  as : 

"    *    *    *     one  who  lives  to  say 
My  skies  have  held  more  gold  than  gray, 
And  that  the  glory  of  the  real 
By  far  outshines  my  youth's  ideal." 


66  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  First  Valentine* 

ST.  VALENTINE !"    What  tender  thoughts  come  wreathed 
around  the  honored  name 
Of  boyhood's  days  when  first  the  heart  was  fired  with  love's  soft, 

holy  flame, 
When  timid  lovers  grasped  the  chance  to  breathe  their  love  in 

simple  line, 
And  wonder  if  the  darling  one  would  guess  who  sent  the  valentine. 
Among  the  messages  was  one  far  dearer  than  the  rest  to  me, 
'Twas  written  in  a  childish  hand,  the*  letters  fashioned  awkwardly, 
And  well  I  knew  from  whom  it  came,  that  barefoot  little  sweet- 
heart true : 

"If  yu  luv  me 
As  i  luv  yu 
No  nife  can  cut 
Our  luv  in  2." 

A  timid  little  freckled  face  set  'neath  a  crown  of  tangled  hair, 

A  faded  dress  of  calico  o'er  feet  and  ankles  brown  and  bare, 

Two  drooping  long-lashed  eyes  of  blue,  red  lips  I  thought  a  god 

would  kiss ; 
A  tiny,  awkward  country  girl  who  answered  to  the  name  of  "Cis." 
We'd  play  together  at  recess  and  eat  our  lunch  beneath  a  tree, 
I'd  share  my  pumpkin  pie  with  her,  she'd  bread  and  butter  share  with 

me, 
And  when  that  little  missive  came  I  seemed  to  feel  those  eyes  of  blue : 

"If  yu  luv  me 
As  i  luv  yu 
No  nife  can  cut 
Our  luv  in  2." 

Among  my  love-fraught  treasures  now  are  many  printed  works  of 

art, 
Each  calling  up  a  memory  of  some  adventure  of  the  heart, 
Bright  wreaths   of  vari-colored  flowers,   sweet  cupids  poised  on 

golden  wing, 
Fair  doves  of  emblematic  white,  love  knots  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.   26.  67 

On  each  recurrence  of  the  day  I  look  these  hoarded  treasures  o'er, 
And  one  far  more  than  all  the  rest  my  aging  heart  warms  to  the 

core, 
The  first  love  message  of  my  life  from  little  sweetheart  fond  and 
true: 

"If  yu  luv  me 
As  i  luv  yu 
No  nife  can  cut 
Our  luv  in  2." 

That  child  sweetheart  is  near  me  yet,  the  truant  locks  now  streaked 

with  gray, 
The  face,  once  freckled,  bears  the  lines  which  years  relentlessly  por- 
tray, 
But  in  the  eyes  the  same  blue  depth  of  azure  beauty  softly  lies, 
And  on  the  face  the  same  sweet  smile  brings  answering  sparkles  to 

mine  eyes. 
The  love-tipped  arrow  Cupid  sent  through  that  first  childish  valen- 
tine 
Yet  finds  a  welcome  lodgment  in  this  love-enamored  heart  of  mine, 
And  oft  I  kiss  the  hand  which  penned  the  lines  which  time  has 
proven  true : 

"If  yu  luv  me 
As  i  luv  yu 
No  nife  can  cut 
Our  luv  in  2." 


The  Boy  Kept  Step. 

By  OPIE  ?.  READ. 

THE  other  day,  while  waiting  at  a  desolate  way  station  in  Illi-r 
nois  for  a  train  which  seemed  to  have  declared  itself  against 
schedule  time  and  human  patience,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
man  and  a  small  boy  who  sat  on  a  bench  near  the  end  of  the  plat- 
form.    The  man's  face  bespoke  oppressive  weariness,  and  the  e&- 


68  WERNER'S   READINGS 

hausted  manner  in  which  he  leaned  back  against  the  station-house 
showed  that  he  had  been  subjected  to  some  great  strain.  The  boy 
was  given  to  excessive  liveliness.  lie  found  a  large  barrel  hoop, 
and,  in  turning  it  around  for  closer  inspection,  struck  the  man  on  the 
nose.  Then,  securing  an  old  oyster  can,  he  filled  it  with  water  from 
a  neighboring  puddle  and  poured  it  on  a  carpetbag  which  some  one 
had  left  on  the  platform.  Then,  wiping  his  hands  on  his  clothes,  he 
approached  the  man.     The  man  sighed  deeply  and  said: 

"Run  along  now." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  you  here.  No,  I  don't  want  you  to  put 
your  arms  around  my  neck,"  he  added,  when  the  boy  had  climbed  up 
on  the  bench." 

"I  want  to  love  you." 

"Well,  but  you  can  love  me  without  choking  me.  Look  out, 
don't  you  put  your  muddy  feet  on  me." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  you  to,  that's  why." 

"Will  people  think  you  have  been  playing  in  the  dirt?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  will  they?"  •   ■ 

"Because  they  will." 

"Why  will  they  will?" 

"Oh,  get  down  and  hush.  You  are  sometimes  the  most  foolish 
child  I  ever  saw." 

"Are  you  a  Anarchist?"  the  boy  asked  when  he  had  climbed 
down,  not,  however,  without  wiping  his  muddy  feet  on  the  man's 
trousers. 

"Of  course  not." 

"What  is  a  Anarchist?" 

"A  man  who  tries  to  destroy  the  law." 

"What  law?" 

"The  law  of  the  land." 

"What  land?" 

"This  land* 

"This  land  right  here  ?"  pointing  to  the  ground. 

"Yes." 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  69 

"Has  this  land  right  here  got  law?" 

"Yes." 

"What  is  law?" 

"It's  a — a — rule  of  civil — that  is — look  here,  sir,  are  you  going 
to  hush  and  let  me  alone?" 

After  a  short  silence.     "What  is  law  for?" 

"To  make  people  behave  themselves." 

"Can  I  see  the  law  if  I  go  out  there  and  look  on  the  land?" 

"No." 

"Then  how  is  it  the  law  of  the  land?" 

"I  don't  know.     Hush." 

"Then  how  do  you  know  it  is  the  law  of  the  land?" 

"I  don't  want  to  box  your  ears,  but  I'm  afraid  that  I'll  be  driven 
to  it." 

"Box  my  ears  because  I  talk?" 

"Yes." 

"And  would  you  box  my  tongue  because  I  hear?" 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
platform.  The  boy  followed,  attempting  to  keep  step  with  him. 
After  a  while  the  man,  glancing  at  his  watch,  muttered  that  the  su- 
perintendent of  the  road  ought  be  hanged. 

"Is  he  a  Anarchist?"  the  boy  asked. 

"No." 

"Then  why  ought  he  to  be  hanged?" 

"Because  he  has  no  regard  for  the  public." 

"What's  the  public?" 

"The  people." 

"Am  I  the  public?" 

The  man  wheeled  around  and  walked  away.  The  boy  kept  step 
with  him.  The  man  resumed  his  seat  on  the  bench.  The  boy 
found  an  old  shoe,  put  it  on  and  began  to  "scuff"  around  on  the 
platform,  pretending  that  he  was  lame.  Then,  declaring  that  he  was 
a  horse,  he  began  to  gallop.  The  old  shoe  flew  off  and  struck  the 
man  on  the  head,  just  as  he  had  taken  off  his  hat  to  run  a  handker- 
chief over  the  polished  surface  covering  his  mine  of  thought. 

"I  didn't  go  to  do  it,"  the  boy  exclaimed. 

"Come  here,  sir,  and  sit  down.     Come  here  this  instant.     Sit 


70  WERNER'S    READINGS 

down  here,  now,  and  don't  let  me  hear  another  word  out  of  you. 
This  is  the  last  time  you  shall  ever  go  anywhere  with  me.  Do  you 
hear?     Hah,  do  you  hear?     Why  don't  you  answer  me,  sir?" 

"Because  you  said  you  didn't  want  to  hear  another  word  out  of 
me." 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  a  nervous  march  up  and 
down  the  platform.     The  boy  kept  step  with  him. 


Oat  Sleighing  with  Sophia* 

By  GEORGE  V,  HOBART. 

OH!  the  goin'  was  delightful — never  saw  sich  slidey  snow! 
It  was  jus'  a  white  temptation  all  the  time! 
Everybody  seemed  a-sleighin'  or  jus'  startin'  out  to  go, 

An'  their  smiles  oi  satisfaction  was  sublime. 
So  1  says :     "It's  right  smart  costly  for  to  hire,  but,  gee  whiz ! 

A  feller  must  be  sporty  now  and  then ! 
An,  moreover,  there's  the  lady — well,  I  guess  I  know  my  biz! 

1  ain't  goin'  to  let  her  glide  with  other  men!" 
So  I  goes  an'  gits  a  cutter  an'  a  tidy  lookin'  nag. 

Then  I  starts  to  call  fer  Miss  Sophia  Twigg; 
She  accepts  my  invitation  without  lettin'  no  time  drag — 

(An'  it  on'y  cost  ten  dollars  fer  the  rig!) 

Ain't  it  grand  when  there's  good  sleighin'  fer  to  hear  the  jinglin' 
bells, 

If  a  pretty  girl  is  smilin'  by  your,  side ! 
Kinder  makes  a  feller  feel  like  he  could  loosen  up  some  yells 

When  the  cutter  gits  to  goin'  at  a  glide! 
Miss  Sophia's  awful  bashful,  an'  I'm  built  'at  self-same  way, 

So  we  rode  along  as  timid  as  two  birds ; 
Conversation's  very  useful  when  you've  got  a  lot  to  say, 

But  it  ain't  much  use  without  you  have  the  words. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.   26.  71 

Finally  I  musters  courage,  an'  I  says,  "The  weather's  fine !" 

"Well,  tol'able,"  says  Miss  Sophia  Twigg; 
Oh!  the  word  she  used  was  simple,  but  her  voice  it  was  divine — 

(An'  it  on'y  cost  ten  dollars  fer  the  rig!) 

Jingle!  jangle!  ain't  it  funny  how  the  sleigh  bells  hints  at  things? 

Seemed  like  they  was  all  suggestin'  I  propose ! 
"Ask  her!"  "Jingle!"  "Ask  her!"  "Jangle!"  kinder  sassy  like  they 
sings, 

But  plain  enough,  the  goodness  on'y  knows. 
So  I  clears  my  throat  fer  action — hem !  I  flicks  the  whip  a  spell ; 

Then  I  says,  "How  would  you  like  if  I — if  I — " 
She  glanced  up  smilin'  pretty,  an'  my  feeble  spirits  fell, 

An'  I  guess  I  let  a  half  a  mile  go  by. 
Then  I  says,  "If  I — if  I  should  take  you  out  another  day?" 

"Well,  tol'able!"  says  Miss  Sophia  Twigg; 
Oh !  the  word  she  used  was  simple,  but  to  see  them  dimples  play — 

(An'  it  on'y  cost  ten  dollars  fer  the  rig!) 

"Ask  her!"  "Jingle!"  "Ask  her!"  "Jangle!"  how  them  pesky  bells 
did  dance! 

An'  the  horse's  hoofs  they  got  to  hintin',  too, 
So  1  whispers  to  myself,  "I  will,  but  give  me  half  a  chance — 

Proposin'  ain't  no  easy  thing  to  do!" 
Then  1  buttons  tight  my  collar,  an'  I  lays  the  whip  away, 

An'  I  says,  "How  would  you  like  to  be — to  be — " 
She  looked  an'  smiled  straight  at  me,  an'  the  words  jus'  flew  away, 

While  my  face  it  was  a  reddish  sight  to  see. 
"To  be,"  I  went  on  sayin',  "out  here  sleighin'  all  the  while?" 

"Well,  tol'able!"  says  Miss  Sophia  Twigg; 
Oh !  the  word  she  used  was  easy,  but  to  see  that  lovely  smile — 

(An'  it  on'y  cost  ten  dollars  fer  the  rig!) 

I  reckon  'at  we  rode  afore  we  turned  about  ten  miles — 

The  shortest  ten  'at  ever  was  surveyed ! 
Me  settin'  there  a-baskin'  in  the  beauty  of  her  smiles, 

An'  tryin'  fer  to  ask  her,  but  afraid. 


72  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Two  dozen  times,  I  reckon,  did  I  muster  courage  brave, 

An'  set  myself  right  firm  down  to  the  task, 
But  the  way  her  eyes  laughed  at  me  wouldn't  let  my  heart  behave, 

An'  the  fatal  question  never  could  I  ask. 
"How  would  you  like  to  be — to  go — to  have" — an'  then  I'd  switch, 

"Well,  tol'able!"  says  Miss  Sophia  Twigg; 
Oh !  the  word  it  wasn't  costly,  but  her  voice  was  sweet  an'  rich — 

(An'  it  on'y  cost  ten  dollars  fer  the  rig!) 

It  was  moonlight  when  we  started  on  the  road  'at  led  fer  home, 

An'  the  little  stars  was  blinkin'  in  the  sky; 
Oh !  the  night  was   sentimental — what   some   folks   would   call   a 
pome! 

So  I  says  now  here  is  where  I  do  or  die ! 
Then  I  loosens  up  my  collar,  an'  I  grabs  my  trusty  whip, 

'Gainst  the  dashboard  firm  I  goes  an'  plants  my  feet ; 
Then  in  one  breath  out  I  speaks  it,  'fore  my  courage  it  can  slip : 

"Oh,  Sophia,  you  are  lookin'  mighty  sweet ! 
How  would  you  like  to  be  my  own  an'  ownest  on'y  bride?" 

"Well,  tol'able!"  said  Miss  Sophia  Twigg; 
Oh !  the  word  she  used  was  simple,  but  fer  that  word  I'd  a  died — 

(An'  I'd  paid  a  thousand  dollars  fer  the  rig!) 


Generosity* 

Willie.     I  say,  give  me  a  bite  ? 

Jack.         Go  'way. 

Willie.     You  might !  so  far ! 

Jack.         All  right !     There  you  are. 

Take  care,  don't  take  it  all, 

Be  fair ! 
Willie.     That's  too  small!    You're  bright 

If  you  call  that  a  bite. 
Jack.         Look,  now.    Take  to  there. 
Willie.     That's  how  to  be  square 
Jack.         I'm  ready  to  share. 
Willie.     Hold  steady! 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  73 

At    Uncle  Dock's. 

By    ELSIE  M ALONE  SMcCOLLUM. 

Yes-sir-ree  !  to  Uncle  Dock's  house ! 
That's  where  mamma  said  we'd  go; 
It's  lots  nicer  than  the  city, 
An'  that's  where  the  good  things  grow. 

Uncle  Dock  was  onct  at  our  house, 
An'  when  dinner  time  was  come, 
We  had  nicest  watermelon  ! — 
But  they  grow  out  at  his  home. 

Just  to  think !  I'll  see  'em  growin' ! 
Yes,  sir,  get  to  climb  the  tree ! 
Shake  'em  down  an'  bust  'em  open ! 
Eat  a  whole  un  there — just  me ! 

Wish't  yo'  ma'd  let  you  go,  Walter; 
Unc'  Dock  won't  care  cause  he  likes  boys; 
An'  Aunt  Mollie — she's  not  nervish ; 
Spec'  she'd  like  to  hear  our  noise. 

So'd  Aunt  Bye,  but  she  don't  live  there ; 
She  lives  way  off  where's  a  big  spring, 
Down  in  Huntsville,  Alabama; 
Oh,  that's  further'n  anything! 

Spec'  that's  most  across  the  ocean ! 

But  we'll  go  there  some  time,  too ; 

This  time,  though,  we'll  go  t'  Uncle  Dock's  house, 

An'  wear  my  clo'es  'at's  just  right  new. 

I  must  take  these  just  to  play  in, 
For  uncle  says  we'll  climb  the  hay; 
Hunt  the  eggs  and  feed  the  ponies — 
I'll  have  fun  there  every  day. 


74  WERNER'S   READINGS 

They  have  lots  and  lots  of  cows  there, 
An'  they  give  sweet  milk  every  one; 
Milkman's  cow  they  don't  give  that  kind, 
'Cept  onct  in  a  while — won't  I  have  fun ! 

When  I  said  I'd  talk  to  papa 
Through  the  telephone  every  day, 
Uncle  Dock  he  laughed  and  tol'  me 
They  don't  have  'em  out  his  way. 

They  don't  have  any  street  cars  either 
But  they  have  so  many  things — 
Pigs  an'  cows  an'  sheep  an'  chickens, 
An'  a  Poll  parrot  'at  talks  and  sings. 

Yes-sir-ree!  to  Uncle  Dock's  house! 
That's  where  mamma  said  we'd  go ! 
It's  lots  nicer  than  the  city, 
For  that's  where  the  good  things  grow. 


Our  Glorious  Language* 

WE'LL  begin  with  box,  and  the  plural  is  boxes, 
But  the  plural  of  ox  should  be  oxen,  not  oxes. 
The  one  fowl  is  a  goose,  but  two  are  called  geese, 
Yet  the  plural  of  mouse  should  never  be  meese. 
You  may  find  a  lone  mouse  or  a  whole  nest  of  mice, 
But  the  plural  of  house  is  houses,  not  hice. 
If  the  plural  of  man  is  always  called  men, 
Why  shouldn't  the  plural  of  pan  be  called  pen? 
The  cow  in  the  plural  may  be  cows  or  kine, 
But  a  bow  if  repeated  is  never  called  bine, 
And  the  plural  of  vow  is  vows  never  vine. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  75 

If  I  speak  of  a  foot  and  you  show  me  your  feet, 
And  I  give  you  a  boot,  would  a  pair  be  called  beet? 
If  one  is  a  tooth,  and  the  whole  set  are  teeth, 
Why  shouldn't  the  plural  of  both  be  called  beeth? 
If  the  singular's  this  and  the  plural  is  these, 
Should  the  plural  of  kiss  be  nicknamed  keese? 
Then  one  may  be  that  and  three  would  be  those, 
Yet  hat  in  the  plural  would  never  be  hose, 
And  the  plural  of  cat  is  cats,  not  cose. 
We  speak  of  a  brother,  and  also  of  brethren, 
But  tho'  we  say  mother,  we  never  say  methren ; 
Then  the  masculine  pronouns  are  he,  his  and  him, 
But  imagine  the  feminine  she,  shis  and  shim ! 
So  the  English,  I  think,  you  all  will  agree, 
Is  the  greatest  language  you  ever  did  see. 


Getting  ^Rid  of  Her  daughter's  Heaxx. 


M 


ARY  BROWN'S  mother  is  a  very  nice  woman  but  she  doesn't 
want  Mary  to  get  married  and  she  employs  certain  methods 
to  prevent  which  are  generally  effective.  The  other  evening  a 
splendid  catch  called  to  escort  Mary  to  the  opera.  While  Mrs. 
Brown  was  helping  Mary  get  ready  she  said : 

"Mary,  are  you  going  to  wear  the  shoes  with  one  heel  off,  or 
the  pair  with  holes  in  'em?" 

Mary  did  not  seem  to  hear,  and  the  mother  inquired : 

"Are  you  going  to  wear  that  dollar  gold  chain  and  that  washed 
locket,  or  will  you  wear  the  diamond  father  bought  at  the  hardware 
store?" 

Mary  winked  at  her,  and  the  young  man  blushed,  but  the  old 
lady  went  on : 

"Are  you  going  to  borrow  Mrs.  Brown's  shawl,  or  will  you  wear 
mine?" 

Mary  bustled  around  the  room,  and  the  mother  said : 

"Be  careful  of  your  dress,  Mary;  you  know  it's  the  only  one 


76  WERNER'S  READINGS 

you've  got,  and  you  can't  have  another  until  the  mortgage  of  this 
place  is  lifted." 

Mary  remarked  to  her  escort  that  it  promised  to  be  a  beautiful 
evening,  and  as  she  buttoned  her  glove  her  mother  said: 

"Those  are  Mrs.  Hardy's  gloves,  ain't  they?  She's  been  a  good 
neighbor  to  us,  and  I  don't  know  how  you'd  manage  to  go  anywhere 
if  she  didn't  live  near  us." 

Mary  was  hurrying  to  get  out  of  the  room,  when  the  mother 
raised  her  voice  once  more  and  asked : 

"Did  you  run  into  Mrs.  Jewett's  and  borrow  her  bracelet  and 
fan?  Yes,  I  see  you  did.  Well,  now  you  look  real  stylish,  and  I 
hope  you'll  have  a  good  time." 

Mary  sits  by  her  window  in  the  pale  moonlight  and  sighs  for  the 
splendid  young  man  to  come  and  beau  her  around  some  more,  but 
she  hasn't  seen  him  since  that  night.  Her  mother  says  that  he 
seemed  like  a  nice  young  man,  and  she  hopes  he  hasn't  been  killed 
by  the  street  cars. 


T/ze  White  Mans  burden. 

By  RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

TAKE  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 
Send  forth  the  best  ye  breed — 
Go,  bind  your  sons  to  exile 

To  serve  your  captives'  need; 
To  wait,  in  heavy  harness, 

On  fluttered  folk  and  wild — 

Your  new-caught  sullen  peoples, 

Half  devil  and  half  child. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden- 
In  patience  to  abide, 

To  veil  the  threat  of  terror 
And  check  the  show  of  pride ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  77 

By  open  speech  and  simple, 

A  hundred  times  made  plain, 
To  seek  another's  profit 

And  work  another's  gain. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden— 

The  savage  wars  of  peace — 
Fill  full  the  mouth  of  Famine, 

And  bid  the  sickness  cease ; 
And  when  your  goal  is  nearest 

(The  end  for  others  sought) 
Watch  sloth  and  heathen  folly 

Bring  all  your  hope  to  naught. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

No  iron  rule  of  kings, 
But  toil  of  serf  and  sweeper — 

The  tale  of  common  things. 
The  ports  ye  shall  not  enter, 

The  roads  ye  shall  not  tread. 
Go,  make  them  with  your  living 

And  mark  them  with  your  dead. 

Take  up  the  White  Man  s  burden — 

And  reap  his  old  Reward — 
The  blame  of  those  ye  better 

The  hate  of  those  ye  guard — 
The  cry  of  hosts  ye  humor 

(Ah,  slowly)  toward  the  light: 
'Why  brought  ye  us  from  bondage, 

Our  loved  Egyptian  night?" 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Ye  dare  not  stoop  to  less — 
Nor  call  too  loud  on  Freedom 

To  cloke  your  weariness. 


78  WERNER'S   READINGS 

By  all  ye  will  or  whisper, 

By  all  ye  leave  to  do, 
The  silent,  sullen  peoples 

Shall  weigh  your  God  and  you. 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 

Have  done  with  childish  days — 
The  lightly  proffered  laurel, 

The  easy  ungrudged  praise: 
Comes  now  to  search  your  manhood 

Through  all  the  thankless  years, 
Cold,  edged  with  dear-bought  wisdom, 

The  judgment  of  your  peers. 


McKinleys  Funeral  Address. 

By  C.  m.  MANCHESTER,  D.D. 
EXTRACT. 

OUR  President  is  dead.  We  can  hardly  believe  it.  We  had 
hoped  and  prayed,  and  it  seemed  that  our  hopes  were  to  be 
realized  and  our  prayers  answered,  when  the  emotion  of  joy  was 
changed  to  one  of  grave  apprehension.  Still  we  waited,  for  we 
said :  "It  may  be  that  God  will  be  gracious  and  merciful  unto  us." 
It  seemed  to  us  that  it  must  be  His  will  to  spare  the  life  of  one  so 
well  beloved  and  so  much  needed. 

Thus,  alternating  between  hope  and  fear,  the  weary  hours  passed 
on.  Then  came  the  tidings  of  defeated  science  and  of  the  failure 
of  love  and  prayer  to  hold  its  object  to  the  earth.  We  seemed  to 
hear  the  faintly  muttered  words :  "Good-bye,  all,  good-bye.  It 
is  God's  way.  His  will,  not  ours,  be  done,"  and  then  "Nearer, 
My  God,  to  Thee."  So,  nestling  nearer  to  his  God,  he  passed  out 
into  unconsciousness,  skirted  the  dark  shores  of  the  sea  of  death  for 
a  time,  and  then  passed  on,  to  be  at  rest.  His  great  heart  had  ceased 
to  beat.     Our  hearts  are  heavy  with  sorrow. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.   26.  79 

It  was  characteristic  cf  our  beloved  President  that  men  met  him 
only  to  love  him.  They  might,  indeed,  differ  with  him,  but  in  the 
presence  of  such  dignity  of  character  and  grace  of  manner  none 
could  fail  to  love  the  man.  The  people  confided  in  him,  believed 
in  him.  It  was  s_id  of  Lincoln  that  probably  no  man  since  the 
days  of  Washington  was  ever  so  deeply  imbedded  and  enshrined 
in  the  hearts  of  the  people,  but  it  is  true  of  McKinley  in  a  larger 
sense.  Industrial  and  social  conditions  are  such  that  he  was,  even 
more  than  his  predecessors,  the  friend  of  the  whole  people. 

My  friends  and  countrymen,  with  what  language  shall  I  attempt 
to  give  expression  to  the  deep  horror  of  our  souls  as  I  speak  of  the 
cause  of  his  death?  When  we  consider  the  magnitude  of  the  crime 
that  has  plunged  the  country  and  the  world  into  unutterable  grief, 
we  are  not  surprised  that  one  nationality  after  another  has  has- 
tened to  repudiate  the  dreadful  act.  This  gentle  spirit,  who  hated 
no  one,  to  whom  every  man  was  a  brother,  was  suddenly  smitten  by 
the  cruel  hand  of  an  assassin,  and  that,  too,  while  in  the  very  act 
of  extending  a  kind  and  generous  greeting  to  one  who  approached 
him  under  the  sacred  guise  of  friendship. 

Could  the  assailant  have  realized  how  awful  was  the  act  he  was 
about  to  perform,  how  utterly  heartless  the  deed,  methinks  he  would 
have  stayed  his  hand  at  the  very  threshold  of  it.  In  all  the  coming 
years  men  will  seek  in  vain  to  fathom  the  enormity  of  that  crime. 

Had  this  man  who  fell  been  a  despot,  a  tyrant,  an  oppressor, 
an  insane  frenzy  to  rid  the  world  of  him  might  have  sought  ex- 
cuse, but  it  was  the  people's  friend  who  fell  when  William  McKinley 
received  the  fatal  wound.  Himself  a  son  of  toil,  his  sympathies 
were  with  the  toiler.  No  one  who  has  seen  the  matchless  grace  and 
perfect  ease  with  which  he  greeted  such  can  ever  doubt  that  his 
heart  was  in  hig  open  hand.  Every  heart  throb  was  for  his  country- 
men. That  his  life  should  be  sacrificed  at  such  a  time,  just  when 
there  was  abundant  peace,  when  all  the  Americas  were  rejoicing  to- 
gether, is  one  of  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  Providence. 

In  the  midst  of  our  sorrow  we  have  much  .to  console  us.  He 
lived  to  see  his  nation  greater  than  ever  before.  All  sectional  lines 
are  blotted  out.  There  is  no  South,  no  North,  no  East,  no  West. 
Washington  saw  the  beginning  of  our  national  life.    Lincoln  passed 


80  WERNER'S   READINGS 

through  the  night  of  our  history  and  saw  the  dawn.  McKinley 
beheld  his  country  in  the  splendor  of  its  noon.  Truly  he  died  in  the 
fulness  of  his  fame.  With  Paul  he  could  say,  and  with  equal  truth- 
fulness, "I  am  ready  to  be  offered."  The  work  assigned  him  had 
been  well  done.  The  nation  was  at  peace.  We  had  fairly  entered 
upon  an  era  of  unparalleled  prosperity.  Our  revenues  were  gen- 
erous. Our  standing  among  the  nations  was  secure.  Our  Presi- 
dent was  safely  enshrined  in  the  affections  of  a  united  people. 
Little  more  than  four  years  ago  we  bade  him  good-bye  as  he  went 
to  assume  the  great  responsibilities  to  which  the  nation  had  called 
him.     His  last  words  as  he  left  us  were: 

"Nothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  this  farewell 
greeting — this  evidence  of  your  friendship  and  sympathy,  your 
good-will,  and,  I  am  sure,  the  prayers  of  all  the  people  with  whom 
I  have  lived  so  long  and  whose  confidence  and  esteem  are  dearer  to 
me  than  any  other  earthly  honors.  To  all  of  us  the  future  is  as  a 
sealed  book,  but  if  I  can,  by  official  act  or  administration  or  utter- 
ance, in  any  degree,  add  to  the  prosperity  and  unity  of  our  beloved 
country,  and  the  advancement  and  well-being  of  our  splendid  citi- 
zenship, - 1  will  devote  the  best  and  most  unselfish  efforts  of  my  life 
to  that  end.  With  this  thought  uppermost  in  my  mind,  I  reluctantly 
take  leave  of  my  friends  and  neighbors,  cherishing  in  my  heart  the 
sweetest  memories  and  thoughts  of  my  old  home — my  home  now — 
and  I  trust,  my  home  hereafter,  so  long  as  I  live." 

We  hoped  with  him  that  when  his  work  was  done,  freed  from 
the  burdens  of  his  great  office,  crowned  with  the  affections  of  a 
happy  people,  he  might  be  permitted  to  close  his  earthly  life  in  the 
home  he  had  loved. 

He  has,  indeed,  returned  to  us,  but  how?  Borne  to  the  strains 
of  "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee,"  and  placed  where  he  first  began  life's 
struggle,  that  the  people  might  look  and  weep  over  so  sad  a  home- 
coming. But  it  was  a  triumphal  march.  How  vast  the  procession. 
The  nation  rose  and  stood  with  uncovered  head.  The  people  of  the 
land  are  chief  mourners.  The  nations  of  the  earth  weep  with  them. 
But,  oh !  what  a  victory. 

I  do  not  ask  you  in  the  heat  of  public  address,  but  in  the  calm 
moments  of  mature  reflection,  what  other  man  ever  had  such  high 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  81 

honors  bestowed  upon  him,-  and  by  so  many  people?  What 
pageant  has  equaled  this  that  we  look  upon  to-day?  We  gave  him 
to  the  nation  but  a  little  more  than  four  years  ago.  He  went  out 
with  the  light  of  the  morning  upon  his  brow,  but  with  his  task  set, 
and  the  purpose  to  complete  it.  We  take  him  back  a  mighty  con- 
queror. 


The  Colonel's  Experiment 

By    WILL  LISENBEE. 
[By  permission  of  Truth.] 

COLONEL  HOOPER'S  business  had  kept  him  in  Badger  City 
for  a  whole  day.  He  was  waiting  to  see  a  man  who  did 
not  come.  Time  hung  heavily  on  his  hands.  No  one  -would  play 
cards  with  him,  and  even  the  harmless  game  of  checkers  seemed  to 
be  a  lost  art  in  the  little  dried-up  Kansas  town. 

The  Colonel  craved  excitement.  He  wanted  to  make  a  bet  with 
some  one  on  something,  he  didn't  care  what,  so  long  as  it  was  a 
bet.     No  one  would  bet  with  him. 

He  began  to  grow  desperate. 

"How  long  has  it  been  since  it  rained  ?"  he  asked  the  Lame  Man 
who  had  just  taken  a  seat  on  the  hotel  piazza. 

"  'Bout  four  months,"  replied  the  Lame  Man. 

The  Colonel  glanced  at  the  blue  expanse  of  sky.  There  was 
not  a  cloud  in  sight. 

"I  will  bet  you  ten  dollars  that  it  will  rain  here  in  ten  minutes," 
he  said. 

The  Lame  Man  shook  his  head.  "I  wouldn't  bet  it  wouldn't  be 
snowing  here  in  ten  minutes." 

The  Colonel  looked  disgusted. 

"Would  you  bet  on  anything?"  he  asked,  contemptuously. 

"I  might." 

"Name  it." 

The  Lame  Man  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  sized  up  the  Colonel 
carefully. 


32  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"I  might  bet  you  a  ten  that  you  couldn't  stand  on  the  end  of  the 
porch  there  for  a  half-hour,"  said  the  Lame  Man  slowly,  "and  re- 
peat a  line  from  Shakespeare  to  every  one. who  spoke  to  you." 

The  Colonel  drew  a  ten  from  his  pocket. 

"Put  up,"  he  said. 

The  Lame  Man  fished  a  ten  from  his  vest  pocket ;  the  two  bills 
were  placed  in  a  book  the  Colonel  had  been  reading  and  laid  on  the 
window-sill  of  the  hotel. 

"Now,"  said  the  Lame  Man,  "you  are  to  stand  on  the  end  of 
the  porch,  and,  no  matter  what  is  said  to  you,  you  are  to  say  this, 
and  nothing  more :     T  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him.'  " 

'"Enough  said." 

The  Colonel  took  his  position,  watch  in  hand,  while  the  Lame 
Man  sank  back  into  his  chair. 

Five  minutes  went  by.  A  squatter  from  Blue  Flats  came  up, 
and  seeing  the  man  standing  with  his  watch  in  hand,  he  asked : 

"What's  yer  time,  stranger?" 

"  T  come  to  bury  Csesar,  not  to  praise  him,' "  said  the  Colonel, 
solemnly. 

"Who's  that  that's  dead?"  asked  the  squatter. 

"  T  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him,'  "  repeated  the  ma*i 
with  the  watch. 

The  squatter  backed  off. 

"Crazier  'an  a  mus'rat,  by  gum !"  he  muttered. 

He  edged  around  to  where  the  Lame  Man  was  sitting. 

"Why  don't  they  take  him  away?"  he  asked. 

"I  dunno,"  replied  the  Lame  Man. 

"Is  he  dang'rous?" 

"I  dunno." 

The  landlord  came  out.  Seeing  the  Colonel  with  his  watch  out, 
he  said : 

"I  reckon  ye're  gettin'  impatient  fer  yer  friend  ter  come?" 

"  T  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him,'  "  said  the  Colonel. 

The  landlord  looked  at  the  Colonel,  then  at  the  Lame  Man. 

"He's  gone  plum  crazy,"  declared  the  squatter. 

"By  Jude,  can  that  be  a  fact!"  exclaimed  the  landlord. 

The  Lame  Man  nodded  gravely. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  83 

"Better  come  an'  have  er  cheer,  Colonel,"  said  the  landlord,  ki 
a  soothing  tone. 

"  'I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him,'  "  repeated  the  Col- 
onel, growing  red  in  the  face. 

The  landlord  looked  completely  beaten. 

"I  wouldn't  'a'  had  it  ter  happen  in  my  house  fer  fifty  dollars," 
he  said. 

"He  ort  ter  be  took  away — he  might  kill  some  one,"  suggested 
the  squatter. 

A  stranger  galloped  up  to  the  hotel  and  dismounted. 

"I  want  to  see  Colonel  Hooper,"  he  said. 

"He's  hyar  a-waitin'  fer  ye,  but  he's  gone  plum  crazy,"  whis- 
pered the  landlord,  nodding  toward  the  Colonel. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  not,"  said  the  stranger.  Then  turning  toward  the 
Colonel,  he  said: 

"This  is  Colonel  Hooper,  I  believe " 

"  T  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him,' "  remarked  the 
Colonel  slowly. 

"By  gosh ! — er — what'd  ye  say  ?"  gasped  the  stranger. 

"  T  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him.'  " 

"That  settles  it,"  replied  the  newcomer,  moving  back. 

"He's  crazier  'an  a  mus'rat !"  declared  the  squatter.  "Why  don't 
somebody  take  him  inter  charge  'fore  he  gits  vi'lent?" 

The  Colonel  began  to  grow  purple  in  the  face ;  his  hands  worked 
convulsively,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  get  at  the  squat- 
ter, but  he  stood  his  ground. 

Fifteen  minutes  of  the  half-hour  had  now  passed.  A  crowd  be- 
gan to  gather. 

"What's  the  matter  hyar,"  said  Baggs,the  groceryman,  coming  up. 
•  "A  man's  gone  crazy,"  said  some  one. 

The  crowd  grew  larger  and  larger.  Women  and  children 
pressed  into  the  crowd  to  get  a  look  at  the  Colonel. 

"Look  at  his  eyes !"  said  one  of  the  women,  starting  back,  and 
clasping  a  ragged  young  one  to  her  breast.  "What  makes  'em  let 
him  run  loose?" 

"I  knowed  a  man  that  went  crazy  just  like  he's  done,"  said  the 
squatter,  "an'  'fore  he  could  be  got  he  chopped  the  heads  off  uv  the 


84  WERNER'S   READINGS 

hull  family,  an'  blowed  the  house  up  with  er  keg  of  powder  he  had 
fer  blastin'  in  a  well." 

This  cheerful  piece  of  information  caused  one  of  the  women  to 
shriek  and  another  one  to  faint,  and  a  sort  of  frenzy  seemed  to  seize 
the  crowd.    It  began  to  press  about  the  Colonel. 

"Take  holt  uv  him — hit  won't  do  ter  let  him  git  away !"  said  the 
squatter. 

The  Colonel  waved  them  back,  his  face  purple  with  rage.  Two 
men  leaped  forward  and  seized  him  by  the  arms.  He  flung  them 
off  as  if  they  had  been  children.  He  doubled  up  his  fist  and  struck 
right  and  left  as  they  pressed  about  him. 

"  T   come  to    {whack)    bury   Caesar    {whack),  not  to    {whack) 
praise  him   {whack).'" 

Then  they  closed  in  upon  him.  An  awful  scene  followed. 
Women  shrieked  and  fainted;  some  curs  that  were  attracted  by  the 
noise  came  up,  and,  engaging  in  a  vigorous  fight  upon  the  porch, 
added  their  voices  to  the  dreadful  pandemonium.  In  the  midst  of 
this  a  panting,  struggling  humanity,  with  the  Colonel  in  the  center, 
rolled  from  the  porch. 

Five  minutes  later,  the  Colonel,  bound  hand  and  foot,  was  car- 
ried into  the  hotel. 

The  Lame  Man  looked  at  his  watch.  The  half-hour  lacked  just 
three  minutes  of  being  up.  He  stepped  to  the  window,  took  up  the 
book,  extracted  the  two  ten-dollar  bills  therefrom  and  placed  them 
in  his  pocket. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the  crowd,  "this  is  all  the  result  of  un- 
due excitement  on  the  part  of  the  Colonel.  He  will  be  all  right  in 
a  few  minutes.  These  spells  only  come  on  him  once  in  a  year,,  but 
it  might  be  well  to  keep  him  tied  for  about  ten  minutes  longer." 

With  this  he  seized  his  crutch  and  hobbled  away  as  fast  as  he 
could. 

When  the  Colonel's  liberty  was  finally  restored  to  him  he  might 
not  have  been  considered  insane,  but  there  was  no  doubt  that  he 
was  mad.  As  he  hurried  away  to  look  for  the  Lame  Man  the 
squatter  remarked : 

"If  they  hain't  made  the  mistake  of  their  lives  in  turnin'  that 
man  loose,  then  I'm  crazier  'n  a  mus'rat  myself!" 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  85 


The  Recruit 


By  ROBERT  W.   CHAMBERS. 

SEZ  Corporal  Madden  to  Private  McFadden 
"Bedad,  yer  a  bad  'un ! 

Now  turn  out  your  toes ! 
Yer  belt  is  unhookit, 
Yer  cap  is  on  crookit, 

Ye  may  not  be  dhrunk, 
But,  be  jabbers,  ye  look  it! 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Ye  monkey-faced  divil,  I'll  jolly  ye  through! 
Wan — two ! 
Time!  Mark! 
Ye  march  like  the  aigle  in  Cintheral  Parrk !" 

Sez  Corporal  Madden  to  Private  McFadden: 
"A  saint  it  ud  sadden 

To  drill  such  a  mug! 
Eyes  front ! — ye  baboon,  ye ! — 
Chin  up  ! — ye  gossoon,  ye  ! 
Ye've  jaws  like  a  goat — 
Halt !  ye  leather-lipped  loon,  ye ! 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Ye  whiskered  orang-outang,  I'll  fix  you ! 
Wan — two ! 
Time!  Mark! 
Ye've  eyes  like  a  bat! — can  ye  see  in  the  dark?" 

Sez  Corporal  Madden  to  Private  McFadden : 
"Yer  figger  wants  padd'n' — 
Sure,  man,  ye've  no  shape ! 
Behind  ye  yer  shoulders 
Stick  out  like  two  bdwlders ! 


86  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Yer  shins  is  as  thin 
As  a  pair  of  pen-holders! 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Yer  tummy  belongs  on  yer  back,  razoo! 
Wan — two ! 
Time!  Mark! 
I'm  dhry  as  a  dog — I  can't  shpake,  but  I  bark!" 

Sez  Corporal  Madden  to  Private  McFadden: 
"Me  heart  it  ud  gladden 

To  blacken  yer  eye. 
Ye're  gettin'  too  bold,  ye 
Compel  me  to  scold  ye — 
'Tis  halt!  that  I  say — 
Will  ye  heed  what  I  told  ye? 
Wan — two ! 
Wan — two ! 
Be  jabbers,  I'm  dhryer  than  Brian  Boru! 
Wan — two ! 
Time!  Mark! 
What's  wur-ruk  for  chickens  is  sport  for  the  lark !" 

Sez  Corporal  Madden  to  Private  McFadden : 
"I'll  not  stay  a  gadd'n' 
Wid  Dagoes  like  you! 
.     ,  I'll  travel  no  farther, 

I'm  dyin'  for — wather — 

Come  on,  if  ye  like — 

Can  ye  loan  me  a  quarther? 

Ya-as,  you, 

What,  two ! 

And  ye'll  pay  the  potheen? 

Ye're  a  daisy!  Whurroo! 
You'll  do- 
Whist!  Mark! 
The  Rigiment's  flatthered  to  own  ye,  me  spark !" 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  87 


Nanny  Saved  from  the  Poorhouse. 


From   "The  Little  minister,"  'By  J.   €M.  "BARRIE. 

Characters:  Doctor  McQueen.  Mr.  Dishart  (the  Little 
Minister).  Nanny  Webster  (a  poor  old  woman).  Lady  Babbie 
(disguised  as  a  gypsy). 

Scene:  Interior  of  Nanny  Webster's  cottage.  The  old 
woman  is  waiting  for  the  doctor  and  the  minister  who  are  to  take 
her  to  the  poorhouse. 

THE  old  woman  was  standing  at  the  door  of  a  mudhouse, 
listening  for  the  approach  of  the  trap. 

Nanny  was  not  crying.  She  had  redd  up  her  house  for  the  last 
time,  and  put  on  her  black  merino.  Her  mouth  was  wide  open 
while  she  listened.  No  neighbor  was  with  her.  They  feared  to 
hurt  her  feelings.  No  heart  opens  to  sympathy  without  letting  in 
delicacy,  and  these  poor  people  knew  that  Nanny  would  not  like 
them  to  see  her  being  taken  away.  For  a  week  they  had  been  aware 
of  what  was  coming,  and  they  had  been  most  kind  to  her,  but  that 
hideous  word,  the  poorhouse,  they  had  not  uttered.  Poorhouse  is 
not  to  be  spoken  in  Thrums.  Now  that  the  hour  had  come  they 
called  their  children  into  their  houses  and  pulled  down  their  blinds. 

"If  you  would  like  to  see  her  by  yourself,"  the  doctor  said 
eagerly  to  Gavin,  as  the  horse  drew  up  at  Nanny's  gate,  "I'll  wait 
with  the  horse.  "Not,"  he  added  hastily,  "that  I  feel  sorry  for  her. 
We  are  doing  her  a  kindness." 

They  dismounted  together,  however,  and  Nanny,  who  had 
run  from  the  trap  into  the  house,  watched  them  from  her  win- 
dow. 

McQueen  saw  her  and  said  glumly,  "I  should  have  come  alone, 
for  if  you  pray  she  is  sure  to  break  down.  Mr.  Dishart,  could 
you  not  pray  cheerfully?" 


88  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  door  stood  open,  and  Nanny  was  crouching  against  the  op- 
posite wall  of  the  room,  such  a  poor,  dull  kitchen,  that  you  would 
have  thought  the  furniture  had  still  to  be  brought  in.  The  blanket 
and  the  piece  of  old  carpet  that  was  Nanny's  coverlet  were  already 
packed  in  her  box.  The  plate  rack  was  empty.  Only  the  round 
table,  and  the  two  chairs,  and  the  stools  and  some  pans  were  being 
left  behind. 

"Well,  Nanny,"  said  the  doctor,  trying  to  bluster,  "I  have  come, 
and  you  see  Mr.  Dishart  is  with  me.-" 

Nanny  rose  up  bravely.  She  knew  the  doctor  was  good  to  her, 
and  she  wanted  to  thank  him.  She  dropped  a  curtsey,  an  ungainly 
one  maybe,  but  it  was  an  old  woman  giving  the  best  she  had. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  she  said.     "Please  to  take  a  chair." 

The  doctor  thought  it  best  they  should  depart  at  once. 

"Oh,  no,  doctor,"  cried  Nanny  in  alarm. 

"But  you  are  ready?" 

"Ay,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  ready  this  twa  hours,  but  you  micht 
Wait  a  minute.  Hendry  Munn  and  Andrew  Allardyce  is  coming 
yont  the  road,  and  they  would  see  me." 

"Wait,  doctor,"  Gavin  said. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  answered  Nanny. 

"But,  Nanny,"  the  doctor  said,  "you  must  remember  what  I  told 
you  about  the  poorhouse.  It's  a  fine  place  and  you  will  be  very 
happy  in  it." 

"Ay,  I'll  be  happy  in  it,"  Nanny  faltered,  "but,  doctor,  if  I  could 
j«st  hae  bidden  on  here  though  I  wasna  happy!" 

"Think  of  the  food  you  will  get;  broth  nearly  every  day." 

"It — it'll  be  terrible  enjoyable,"  Nanny  said. 

"And  there  will  be  pleasant  company  for  you  always,"  continued 
the  doctor,  "and  a  nice  room  to  sit  in.  Why,  after  you  have  been 
there  a  week,  you  won't  be  the  same  woman." 

"That's  it!"  cried  Nanny,  with  sudden  passion.  "Na,  na; 
I'll  be  a  woman  on  the  poor  rates.  Oh,  mither,  mither,  you  little 
thoucht  when  you  bore  me  I  should  come  to  this !" 

"  Nanny,"  the  doctor  said,  rising  again,  "I  am  ashamed  of 
you." 

"I  humbly  speir  your  forgiveness,  sir,"  she  said,  "and  you  micht 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.   26.  89 

bide  just  a  wee  yet.  I've  been  ready  to  gang  this  twa  hours,  but 
now  that  the  machine  is  at  the  gate,  I  dinna  ken  how  it  is,  but  I'm 
terrible  sweer  to  come  awa'.     Oh,  Mr.  Dishart,  it's  richt  true  what 

the  doctor  says  about  the the  place,  but  I  canna  just  take  it  in. 

I'm — I'm  gey  auld." 

"You  will  often  get  out  to  see  your  friends,"  was  all  Gavin 
could  say. 

"Na,  na,  na,"  she  cried,  "dinna  say  that,  I'll  gang,  but  you 
mauna  bid  me  ever  come  out,  except  in  a  hearse.  Dinna  let  ony- 
body  in  Thrums  look  on  my  face  again." 

"We  must  go,"  said  the  doctor,  firmly.  "Put  on  your  mutch, 
Nanny." 

"I  dinna  need  to  put  on  a  mutch,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint 
flush  of  pride.     "I  have  a  bonnet." 

The  doctor  glanced  at  the  minister,  and  Gavin  rose.  "Let  us 
pray,"  he  said,  and  the  three  went  down  on  their  knees.  Had  the 
little  minister  been  of  God's  own  image,  unstained,  he  would  have 
forgotten  all  else  to-day  in  his  Maker's  presence,  but  Nanny  was 
speaking  too,  and  her  words  choked  his.  At  first  she  only  whis- 
pered, but  soon  what  was  eating  her  heart  burst  out  painfully,  and 
she  did  not  know  that  the  minister  had  stopped.  They  were  such 
moans  as  these  that  brought  him  back  to  earth : — 

"I'll  ha'e  to  gang.  .  .  .  I'm  a  base  woman  no'  to  be  mair 
thankfu'  to  them  that  is  so  good  to  me.  ...  I  dinna  like  to  prig 
wi'  them  to  take  a  roundabout  road,  and  I'm  sair  fleid  the  Roods 
will  see  me.  .  .  .  If  it  could  just  be  said  to  poor  Sanders  when 
he  comes  back  that  I  died  hurriedly,  syne  he  would  be  able  to  haud 
up  his  head.  .  .  .  Oh,  mither !  .  .  .  I  wish  terrible  they 
had  come  and  ta'en  me  at  night.  .  .  .  It's  a  dog-cart,  and  I 
was  praying  it  micht  be  a  cart,  so  that  they  could  cover  me  wi' 
straw." 

"This  is  more  than  I  can  stand,"  the  doctor  cried. 

Nanny  rose  frightened. 

"I've  tried  you  sair,"  she  said,  "but,  oh,  I'm  grateful,  and  I'm 
ready  now." 

They  all  advanced  toward  the  door  without  another  word,  and 
Nanny  even  tried  to  smile.     But  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  some- 


90  WERNER'S    READINGS 

!  thing  came  over  her,  and  she  stood  there.  Gavin  took  her  hand, 
and  it  was  cold.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other  and  her  mouth 
was  opening  and  shutting. 

"I  canna  helpt  it,"  she  said. 

"It's  cruel  hard,"  muttered  the  doctor.  "I  knew  this  woman 
when  she  was  a  lassie." 

The  little  minister  stretched  out  his  hands.  "Have  pity  on  her, 
O  God!"  he  prayed  with  the  presumptuousness  of  youth. 

Nanny  heard  the  words.     "Oh,  God,"  she  cried,  "you  micht!" 

God  needs  no  minister  to  tell  Him  what  to  do,  but  it  was  His 
will  that  the  poorhouse  should  not  have  this  woman.  He  made  use 
of  a  strange  instrument,  no  other  than  the  Egp;/tian,  who  now 
opened  the  mudhouse  door. 

She  had  been  passing  the  house,  and  curiosity,  born  suddenly  of 
Gavin's  cry,  made  he.-  enter.  On  finding  herself  in  unexpected 
company  she  retained  hold  of  the  door,  and  to  the  amazed  min- 
ister she  seemed  for  a  moment  to  have  stepped  into  the  mudhouse 
from  his  garden.  Her  eyes  danced,  however,  as  they  recognized 
him,  and  he  hardened.  "This  is  no  place  for  you,"  he  was  saying 
fiercely,  when  Nanny,  too  distraught  to  think,  fell  crying  at  the 
Egyptian's  feet. 

"They  are  taking  me  to  the  poorhouse,"  she  sobbed ;  "dinfaa 
let  them,  dinna  let  them." 

The  Egyptian's  arms  clasped  her,  and  the  Egyptian  kissed  her 
sallow  cheek.  When  she  turned  with  flashing  eyes  to  the  two  men 
she  might  have  been  a  mother  guarding  her  child. 

"How  dare  you !"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot ;  and  they  quaked 
like  malefactors. 

"You  don't  see, "  Gavin  began,  but  her  indignation  stopped 

him. 

"You  coward!"  she  said. 

Even  the  doctor  had  been  impressed,  so  that  he  now  addressed 
the  gypsy  respectfully. 

"This  is  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "but  a  woman's  sympathy -" 

"A  woman!  Ah,  if  I  could  be  a  man  for  five  minutes."  She 
clenched  her  little  fist  and  again  turned  to  Nanny. 

"You  poor  dear,  I  won't  let  them  take  you  away,"  she  sa.\4 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  91 

tenderly,  and  then  looked  triumphantly  at  both  minister  and  doc- 
tor, as  one  who  had  foiled  them  in  their  cruel  designs. 

"Go !"  she  said,  pointing  grandly  to  the  door. 

"Is  this  the  Egyptian  of  the  riots,"  the  doctor  said  in  a  low 
voice  to  Gavin,  "or  is  she  a  queen?  Hoots,  man,  don't  look  so 
shame-faced.     We  are  not  criminals.     Say  something." 

Then  to  the  Egyptian,  Gavin  said  firmly 

"You  mean  well,  but  you  are  doing  this  poor  woman  a  cruelty  in 
holding  out  hopes  to  her  that  can  not  be  realized.  Sympathy  is  not 
meal  and  bedclothes,  and  these  are  what  she  needs." 

"And  you  who  live  in  luxury,"  retorted  the  girl,  "'would  send 
her  to  the  poorhouse  for  them.     I  thought  better  of  you." 

"Tuts,"  said  the  doctor,  losing  patience,  "Mr.  Dishart  gives 
more  than  any  other  man  in  Thrums  to  the  poor,  and  he  is  not  to  be 
preached  to  by  a  gypsy.     We  are  waiting  for  you,  Nanny." 

"Ay,  I'm  coming,"  said  Nanny,  leaving  the  Egyptian.  "I'll 
ha'e  to  gang,  lassie.     Dinna  greet  for  me." 

But  the  Egyptian  said,  "No,  you  are  not  going.  It  is  these  men 
who  are  going.     Go,  sirs,  and  leave  us." 

"And  you  will  provide  for  Nanny  ?"  asked  the  doctor  contemptu- 
ously. 

"Yes." 

"And  where  is  the  siller  to  come  from?" 

"That  is  my  affair,  and  Nanny's.  Begone,  both  of  you.  She 
shall  never  want  again.  See  how  the  very  mention  of  your  going 
brings  back  life  to  her  face." 

"I  won't  be  gone,"  the  doctor  said,  roughly,  "till  I  see  the  color 
of  your  siller." 

"Oh!  the  money,"  said  the  Egyptian  scornfully.  She  put  her 
hand  into  her  pocket  confidently,  as  if  used  to  well-filled  purses, 
but  could  only  draw  out  two  silver  pieces. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  said  aloud,  though  speaking  to  herself. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  cynical  doctor.     "Come,  Nanny." 

"You  presume  to  doubt  me !"  the  Egyptian  said,  blocking  his 
way  to  the  door. 

"How  could  I  presume  to  believe  you?"  he  answered.  "You 
are  a  beggar  by  profession  and  yet  talk  as  if — Poof,  nonsense." 


92  WERNER'S    READINGS 

"I  could  live  on  terrible  little,"  Nanny  whispered,  "and  Sanders 
will  be  out  again  in  August  month." 

"Seven  shillings  a  week,"  rapped  out  the  doctor. 

"Is  that  all?"  the  Egyptian  asked.     "She  shall  have  it." 

"When  ?" 

"At  once.  No,  it  is  not  possible  to-night,  but  to-morrow  I  will 
bring  five  pounds;  no,  I  will  send  it;  no,  you  must  come  for  it." 

"And  where,  O  daughter  of  Dives,  do  you  reside?"  the  doctor 
asked. 

No  doubt  the  Egyptian  could  have  found  a  ready  answer  had  her 
pity  for  Nanny  been  less  sincere;  as  it  was,  she  hesitated,  wanting 
to  propitiate  the  doctor,  without  telling  him  her  secret. 

4  "I  only  asked,"  McQueen  said,  eyeing  her  curiously,  "because 
when  I  make  an  appointment  I  like  to  know  where  it  is  to  be  held. 
But  I  suppose  you  are  suddenly  to  rise  out  of  the  ground  as  you 
have  done  to-day,  and  did  six  weeks  ago." 

"Whether  I  rise  out  of  the  ground  or  not,"  the  gypsy  said,  keep- 
ing her  temper  with  an  effort,  "there  will  be  a  five  pound  note  in 
my  hand.  You  will  meet  me  to-morrow  about  this  hour  at — say 
the  Kaims  of  Cushie?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  after  a  moment's  pause ;  "I  won't.  Even 
if  I  went  to  the  Kaims  I  should  not  find  you  there.  Why  can  you 
not  come  to  me?" 

"Why  do  you  carry  a  woman's  hair,"  replied  the  Egyptian, 
"in  that  locket  on  your  chain?" 

The  doctor  stepped  back  from  her  hastily  and  could  not  help 
looking  down  at  the  locket. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Egyptian  calmly,  "it  is  still  shut;  but  why  do 
you  sometimes  open  it  at  night?" 

"Lassie,"  the  old  doctor  cried,  "are  you  a  witch?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  said;  "but  I  ask  for  no  answer  to  my  questions. 
If  you  have  your  secrets,  why  may  I  not  have  mine?  Now  will 
you  meetme  at  the  Kaims?" 

"No;  I  distrust  you  more  than  ever.  Even  if  you  came,  it 
would  be  to  play  with  me  as  you  have  done  already.  How  can  a 
vagrant  have  five  pounds  in  her  pocket  when  she  does  not  have 
five  shillings  on  her  back?" 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  93 

"You  are  a  cruel,  hard  man,"  the  Egyptian  said,  beginning  to 
lose  hope.  "But,  see !"  she  cried  brightening,  "look  at  this  ring. 
Do  you  know  its  value?" 

"I  see  it  is  gold,"  the  doctor  said  cautiously,  and  she  smiled 
at  the  ignorance  that  made  him  look  only  at  the  frame. 

"Certainly  it  is  gold,"  said  Gavin,  equally  stupid. 

"Mercy  on  us !"  Nancy  cried,  "I  believe  it's  what  they  call  a 
diamond." 

"How  did  you  come  by  it?"  the  doctor  asked  suspiciously. 

"I  thought  we  had  agreed  not  to  ask  each  other  questions," 
the  Egyptian  answered  drily.  "But  see,  I  will  give  it  to  you  in 
hostage.     If  I  am  not  at  Kaims  to  get  it  back  you  can  keep  it." 

The  doctor  took  the  ring  in  his  hand  and  examined  it  curi- 
ously. 

"There  is  a  quirk  in  this,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I  don't  like. 
Take  back  your  ring,  lassie.  Mr.  Dishart,  give  Nanny  your  arm, 
and  I'll  carry  her  box  to  the  machine." 

Now  all  this  time  Gavin  had  been  in  the  dire  distress  of  a  man 
possessed  of  two  minds.     He  did  not  answer  the  doctor. 

"Unless,"  McQueen  said,  nettled  by  his  hesitation,  "you  trust 
this  woman's  word." 

Gavin  tried  honestly  to  weigh  those  two  minds  together,  but  im- 
pulse, nevertheless,  jumped  into  one  of  the  scales. 

"You  dojrust  me,"  the  Egyptian  said,  with  wet  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  firmly,  "I  trust  you." 

"Just  think  a  moment  first,"  the  doctor  warned  him.  "You  will 
go  to  the  Kaims  for  the  siller?" 

"If  it  is  necessary,"  said  Gavin. 

"It  is  necessary,"  the  Egyptian  said. 

"Then  I  will  go." 

"You  dare  not,  man,"  the  doctor  said  gruffly,  "make  an  ap- 
pointment with  this  gypsy.  Think  of  what  will  be  said  in  Thrums. 
Send  some  one  in  your  place." 

"He  must  come  himself  and  alone,"  said  the  Egyptian.  "You 
must  both  give  me  your  promise  not  to  mention  who  is  Nanny's 
friend,  and  she  must  promise  too." 

"Well/'  said  the  doctor,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  "I  can  not  keep 


94  (    WERNER'S    READINGS 

my  horse  freezing  any  longer.  Remember,  Mr.  Dishart,  you  take 
the  sole  responsibility  of  this." 

"I  do,"  said  Gavin,  "and  with  the  utmost  confidence." 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  doctor.  "Get  the  money  and  I  will  say 
nothing  about  it,  unless  I  have  reason  to  think  that  it  has  been  dis- 
honestly come  by.  Don't  look  so  frightened  at  me,  Nanny.  I  hope 
for  your  sake  that  her  stocking-foot  is  full  of  gold." 

"Surely  it's  worth  risking,"  Nanny  said,  not  very  brightly, 
"when  the  minister's  on  her  side." 

"Ay,  but  on  whose  side,  Nanny?"  asked  the  doctor.  "Lassie,  1 
bear  you  no  grudge;  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are?" 

"Only  a  puir  gypsy,  your  honour,"  said  the  girl,  becoming  mis- 
chievous now  that  she  had  gained  her  point ;  "only  a  wandering  hal- 
lenshaker,  and  will  I  tell  you  your  fortune,  my  pretty  gentleman?" 

"No,  you  sha'n't,"  replied  the  doctor,  plunging  his  hands  so 
hastily  into  his  pockets  that  Gavin  laughed. 

"I  don't  need  to  look  at  your  hand,"  said  the  gypsy,  "I  can  read 
your  fortune  in  your  face." 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly,  so  that  he  fidgeted. 

"I  see  you,"  said  the  Egyptian  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  and  speak- 
ing slowly,  "become  very  frail.  Your  eyesicht  has  almost  gone. 
You  are  sitting  alone  in  a  cauld  room  cooking  your  ain  dinner  ower 
a  feeble  fire.  The  soot  is  falling  down  the  lum.  Your  bearish 
manners  towards  women  have  driven  the  servant  lassie  frae  your 
house,  and  your  wife  beats  you." 

"Ay,  you  spoil  your  prophecy  there,"  the  doctor  said,  consider- 
ably relieved,  "for  I'm  not  married ;  my  pipe's  the  only  wife  I  ever 
had." 

"You  will  be  married  by  that  time,"  continued  the  Egyptian, 
frowning  at  this  interruption,  "for  I  see  your  wife.  She  is  a  shrew. 
She  marries  you  in  your  dotage.  She  lauchs  at  you  in  company. 
She  doesna  allow  you  to  smoke." 

"Away  with  you,  you  jade,"  cried  the  doctor  in  a  fury. 

"You're  na  angry  wi'  me,  doctor,  are  you?"  asked  Nanny  wist- 
fully. "You've  been  richt  good  to  me,  but  I  canna  thole  the  thocht 
o'  that  place.  And,  oh,  doctor,  you  winna  tell  neabody  that  I  was 
so  near  ta'en  to  it?" 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  95 

^e  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne* 

By    WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND,  M.D. 

YOU  can  pass  on  de  worF  w'erever  you  lak, 
Tak'  de  steamboat  for  go  Angleterrem, 
Tak'  car  on  de  State,  an'  den  you  come  back, 

An'  go  all  de  place,  I  don't  care — 
Ma  frien'  dat's  a  fack,  I  know  you  will  say, 

Wen  you  come  on  dis  contree  again, 
Dere's  no  girl  can  touch,  w'at  we  see  ev'ry  day, 
De  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

Don't  matter  how  poor  dat  girl  she  may  be, 

Her  dress  is  so  neat  an'  so  clean, 
Mos'  ev'rywan  t'ink  it  was  mak'  on  Paree, 

An'  she  wear  it,  wall !  jus'  lak  de  Queen. 
Den  come  for  fin'  out  she  is  mak'  it  herse'f, 

For  she  ain't  got  moche  monee  for  spen', 
But  all  de  sam'  tarn,  she  was  never  get  lef, 
Dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

Wen  "  un  vrai  Canayen  "  is  mak'  it  mariee, 

You  t'ink  he  go  leev  on  beeg  flat, 
An'  bodder  herse'f  all  de  tarn,  night  an'  day, 

Wit'  housemaid,  an'  cook,  am1  all  dat? 
Not  moche,  ma  dear  frien',  he  tak'  de  maison, 

Cos'  only  nine  dollar  or  ten, 
Were  he  leev  lak  blood  rooster,  an'  save  de  l'argent, 
Wit'  hees  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

I  marry  ma  famme  w'en  I'm  jus'  twenty  year, 

An'  now  we  got  fine  familee, 
Dat  skip  roun'  de  place  lak  lettle  small  deer, 

No  smarter  crowd  you  never  see — 


WERNER'S   READINGS 

An'  I  t'ink  as  I  watch  dem  all  chasin'  about, 

Four  boy  and  six  girl,  she  mak'  ten, 
Dat's  help  mebber  kip  it,  de  stock  from  run  out, 
Of  de  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

O  she's  quick  an'  she's  smart,  an'  got  plaintee  heart, 

If  you  know  correc'  way  go  about, 
An'  if  you  don't  know,  she  soon  tole  you  so, 

Den  tak'  de  firs'  chance  an'  get  out; 
But  if  she  love  you,  I  spik  it  for  true, 

She  will  mak'  it  more  beautiful  den, 
An'  sun  on  de  sky  can't  shine  lak  de  eye 
Of  dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 


Changing  Her  Mind. 

By  ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 

AS  I  rowled  on  my  side-car  to  Santry  Fair, 
I  chanced  round  a  corner  on  Rose  Adair, 
Her  shoes  in  her  hands,  as  she  took  the  track, 
And  a  fowl  in  a  basket  upon  her  back. 
"  Step  up,  Miss  Rose !     Och !  that  bird's  luck, 
Attendin'  the  fair  as  Rose's  duck, 
As  Rose's  duck,  as  Rose's  duck !  " 
"  No !  Shawn  Magee,  the  bird's  a  goose, 
And  to  travel  with  two,  there's  no  sort  of  use." 


AND   REGIT 'ATI OX S  Xo.    26.  97 

Christmas  Exercises* 

For  School,   Home  or  Ha.lL 

Decorations  :  Evergreens  besprinkled  with  bright  red  berries, 
wild  grapevines,  cotton-batting,  grains,  bittersweet,  leaves,  appro- 
priate mottoes,  etc. 

I.  Song:     '703;  to  the  World." 

II.  Chorus  Recitation  :  "Christmas  Bells."   H.  W.  Longfellow. 

I  heard  the  bells   on   Christmas   day 
Their  old,  familiar  carols  play, 

And    wild    and    sweet 

The  words  repeat 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

And  thought  how,  as  the  day  had  come, 
The  belfries  of  all  Christendom 

Had  rolled  along 

The  unbroken  song 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

Till  ringing,  singing  on  its  way, 

The  word  revolved  from  jiight  to  day, 

A  voice,  a  chim^ 

A  chant,  sublime, 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ! 

But  in  despair  I  bowed  my  head, 
"There  is  no  peace  on  earth,"  I  said, 
"  For  hate  is  strong, 
And  mocks  the  song 
Of  oeace  on  earth,  c;ood-will  to  men !  " 


98  WERNER'S    READINGS 

Then  pealed  the  bells  more  loud  and  deep, 
"God  is  not  dead,  not  doth  he  sleep ! 

The  wrong  shall  fail, 

The  right  prevail, 
With  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men!" 

III.  Dialogue:     "A    Christmas  Gift."     Ella  M.   Powers. 

For  a  girl  and  boy.     The  girl  should  have  an  old  doll  in  her  arms,  the  boy 
should  carry  a  drum  with  broken  head. 

Girl.     This  doll,  Kris  Kringle  brought  last  year, 
Gone  is  one  eye,  her  hair,  her  ear; 
And  now  some  new  ones  he  must  bring, 
The  kind  that  walk  and  talk  and  sing. 

Boy.      Here  is  a  drum  I  had  last  year, 

You  see  it  sounds  now  very  queer; 

I  left  it  out  once  in  the  rain, 

I've  begged  for  other  new  drums  in  vain. 

Girl  [seating  herself  at  a  table]. 

Let's  write  a  letter  to  Santa  Claus, 
Telling  him  what  to  bring,  because 
It  must  be  hard  to  bring,  you  see, 
The  very  things  we  want;  Dear  me! 

[Girl,   reaching   for   paper,   ink   and   pen,   writes.     Presently   she 

reads:] 

"I'll  have  a  hundred  wax  dolls  when  you  come, 
And  please  bring  a  nice,  rich  sounding  drum; 
Bring  hundreds  of  books  and  games,  a  store, 
And  a  thousand  candies  and  lots  more." 
The  letter  is  done  and  now  we'll  away 
And  mail  it  to  him  right  off  to-day. 

'    Boy.      I  guess  he'll  think  'tis  very  shocking, 

To  expect  so  much  in  one  small  stocking. 


AND    RECITATIONS  No.    26.  99 

IV.  Recitation  :     "Christmas."     Margaret   E.    Sangster. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  time  when  Christmas  comes 

All  up  the  streets  and  down, 
For   hearts   alight   make   faces   bright 

When  Christmas  comes  to  town. 
Neighbor  and  friend  in  gladness  meet 

And  all  are  neighbors  dear, 
When  the  Christmas  peace  bids  evil  cease 

In  the  holiest  day  of  the  year. 

The  fair  white  fields  in  silence  lie, 

Invisible  angels  go 
Over  the  floor  that  sparkles  hoar 

With  the  glitter  of  frost  and  snow. 
And  they  scatter  the  infinite  balm  of  heaven 

Wherever  on  earth  they  stay, 
And  heaven's  own  bliss  they  pour 

On  the  earth  each  Christmas  Day. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  task  our  Christmas  brings 

For  old  and  young  to  share, 
With  jingle  of  bells,  and  silvery  swells 

Of  music  in  the  air. 
To  make  the  sad  world  merry  awhile, 

And  to  frighten  sin  away, 
And  to  bless  us  all,  whatever  befall, 

Is  the  task  of  Christmas  Day. 

V.  Recitation  :     "Christmas  Gifts." 


If  I  were  you,  dear  little  girl, — 

But  that  I  cannot  be, 
Because  I  do  not  wear  a  curl 

And  you  don't  look  like  me; 
But  if  I  were  dear  little  you 
There  is  one  thing-  I  wouldn't  do. 


100  WERNER'S    READINGS 

A  Christmas  gift  I  wouldn't  plan 
•     For  every  one  I  know; 
To  exercise  is  better  than 

To  sit  and  sew  and  sew. 
Two  rosy  cheeks  on  Christmas  Day 
Beat  anything  you  can  crochet. 

I  wouldn't  pine  to  be  so  rich, 

Or  long  for  diamond  rings, 
Or  stand  at  plate-glass  windows  which 

Are  filled  with  costly  things. 
I  wouldn't  lack  for  Christmas  cheer 
When  joys  are  all  so  cheap,  my  dear. 

I  said,  you  know,  if  I  were  you ; 

Of  course,  you  know  I'm  not, 
But  I've  met  several  parents  who 

Have  talked  to  me  a  lot, 
And  all  they  want,  I've  heard  them  say, 
Is  just  a  kiss  on  Christmas  Day. 

VI.  Song:     "The  Christmas  Welcome." 

Tune:     "Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp." 
When  the  summer-time  is  passed,  and  the  harvest  housed  at  last, 
And  the  woods  are  standing  bare  and  brown  and  sere ; 
When  the  frost  is  sharp  at  night,  and  the  days  are  short  and  bright, 
Comes  the  gladdest,  merriest  time  of  all  the  year. 

CHORUS. 

Shout,  boys,  shout  the  hearty  welcome ! 

Greet  old  Christmas  with  a  roar ! 

He  has  met  us  with  good  cheer  for  this  many  a  merry  year, 

And  we  hope  he'll  meet  us  all  for  many  more! 

Let  the  tempest  rage  without,  let  its  blast  be  wild  and  stout, 
What  care  we?     Our  hearts  are  stouter  still  and  strong; 
And  within  'tis  warm  and  light,  and  kind  eyes  are  shining  bright, 
And  the  voices  of  our  friends  are  in  our  song. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  101 


CHORUS. 


There's  rare  and  ancient  rhyme  tells  that  at  the  Christmas  time, 
Evil  spirits  flee  away  from  all  the  earth, 

That  no  wicked  word  may  jar,  and  no  sinful  work  may  mar, 
And  no  sorrow  cast  a  shade  on  mortal  mirth. 

CHORUS. 

VII.  Acrostic  :     "Merry  Christmas." 

For  14  children,  each  one  having  suspended  around  neck  a  gold  letter  on 
a  blue  ground.  As  each  child  recites  he  turns  card  so  as  to  show  letter. 
When  all  are  turned  "Merry  Christmas"  will  be  formed. 

First. 
Merry  the  children,  under  the  castle  wall, 

Sing  carols  gay,  to  cheer  both  great  and  small. 

Second. 
E  ach  Christmas,  as  it  comes,  brings  us  cold  fingers,  blue  noses 
and  red  cheeks,  but  we  do  not  mind  that,  for  it  also  gives 
us  snowballs^  snow  houses  and  snow  men. 

Third. 
i?ough  blows  the  wind,  snow  showers  far  and  near, 
Drift  without  echo  to  the  whitening  ground. 
Autumn  has  passed  away ;  and,  cold  and  drear, 
Winter  steps  in  with  frozen  mantle  bound. 

Fourth. 
R  oil  on,  Old  Year !  you  have  done  your  work  well : 
You  have  gathered  up  gold 
To  fill  us  with  cheer !    Roll  on,  Old  Year. 

Fifth. 
yes,  the  new  years  come  and  the  old  years  go, 
Slowly  and  silently  to  and  fro. 

Little  by  little,  the  longest  day 
And  the  longest  life  will  pass  away, 
As  the  new  years  come  and  the  old  years  go. 


102  WERNER'S    READINGS 

Sixth. 

Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year; 

But  coming,  may  it  bring 

Plenty  of  cheer  and  happiness, 

And  every  pleasant  thing. 

Seventh. 
High  and  low 

The  winter  winds  blow — 

They  fill  the  hollows  with  drifts  of  snow, 

And  sweep  on  the  hilltops  a  pathway  clear, 
As  they  hurry  the  children  along  to  school, 
And  whistle  for  Christmas  and  glad  New  Year. 

Eighth. 
R  ing  out,  sweet  bells,  on  this  winter's  night, 
And  tell  the  same  old  story : 
Christmas  has  come  with  all  its  fun, 
And  skating,  with  its  glory. 

Ninth. 
/  n  comes  Christmas,  like  a  king, 

Dressed  in  white  and  crowned  with  gold, 
In  his  kindly  arms  he  brings 
Gifts  of  love  for  young  and  old. 

Tenth. 
S  leigh  bells  are  ringing, 
Children  are  singing 

Carols  that  tell  of  the  glad  Christmas-tide. 
Do  we  remember 
The  month  of  December 

Brings  us  more  joy  than  all  months  beside. 

Eleventh. 
The  wild  flowers  are  all  warmly  tucked  up  in  their  beds  this 
cold   weather,   and   Mother   Nature   is   rocking   them   to 
sleep. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  103 

Twelfth. 
.Merry  Christmas !     What  a  welcome  sound !     It  tells  of  holi- 
days and  frolics,  snowballs  and  skating. 

Thirteenth. 
A  happy  Christmas  to  you ! 

May  it  bring  you  all  fair  things, 
With  the  sweetest,  best  remembrance, 
That  about  its  coming  clings. 

Fourteenth. 
S  weet  memories  come  and  nestle  in  our  hearts,  of  bygone 
Christmas  times. 
Ere  this  departs,  may  it  give  something  dear  to  garner  up, 
and  fill  our  hearts  with  cheer. 

VIII.  Recitation  :     "Christmas  Bounded." 

Christmas  is  bounded  on  the  north  by  Happiness,  Good  Wishes, 
Oyster  Lake  and  the  Isthmus  of  Cranberry  Sauce ;  on  the  east,  by  the 
Peninsula  of  Turkey  and  Ocean  of  Goodies ;  on  the  south  by  Mince 
Pies,  Jellies  and  Cakes ;  on  the  west  by  Pleasant  Words,  from  which 
it  is  separated  by  the  Mountains  of  Cheerfulness.  The  capitals  of 
Christmas  are  Peace  and  Good- Will,  on  the  Christmas  Tree  River. 

[Here  there  comes  a  loud  knock  at  the  door.] 

IX.  Chorus  Recitation  :     "Let  Santa  Clans  In." 

Let  old  Santa  Claus  come  in, 
With  his  grizzly-bearded  chin, 
And  his  wondrous  pack  of  toys 
For  good  little  girls  and  boys. 
Dear,  kind  Santa  Claus,  you'll  see 
What  good  children  we  can  be. 

"Merry  Christmas !"  he  will  say, 
"All  who  willingly  obey, 
Good  at  school  and  fair  at  play, 
Shall  have  something  fine  to-day." 
[Child  opens  door.     Enter  Santa  Claus.] 


104  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Santa  Claus.  How  do  you  do,  children?  I've  been  listening 
to  your  stories.  Yes,  I  love  all  you  children,  wherever  you  may 
live.  Your  letters  have  come  to  me,  and  ever  since  then  my  wife 
and  I  have  been  busy.  Think  of  the  many  presents  we  had  to  pre- 
pare! And  I  had  to  get  my  reindeer  ready  and  shine  the  little 
sleigh.  But  here  I  am,  all  is  prepared,  and  to-night,  when  you  are 
fast  asleep,  I  shall  come  down  the  chimney  and  fill  your  stockings. 
Now  I  must  hurry  away  so  that  I  can  get  back  in  time.  Good-by, 
children. 


In  Memory  of  Lincoln* 


[Oration  given  by  Judge  John  N.  Baldwin,  of  Nebraska,  at  the  New 
York  Republican  Club's  "Lincoln  Dinner,"  Feb.  12,  1901.] 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  stands  in  no  need  of  a  vindicator  or 
a  eulogist.  "His  life  speaks  its  own  best  eulogy."  There 
need  be  no  fear  that  if  these  commemorations  should  cease  Lin- 
coln would  sink  in  public  estimation  or  his  deeds  be  lost  in  his- 
tory. He  had  received  the  heart  homage  of  the  world  before  the 
beauties  of  his  character  were  pointed  out  by  the  critical  wand  of  the 
orator  or  the  subtler  insight  of  the  poet;  and  not  until  poets  cease 
to  sing  of  love,  duty,  justice,  simplicity,  sincerity  and  truth  will 
men  cease  to  talk  about  Lincoln. 

We  all  are  familiar  with  the  stressful  action  through  which 
Lincoln's  character  was  developed,  and  the  strange  frontier  coun- 
try in  which  his  imagination  was  unfolded.  I  believe  that  the 
cardinal  virtues  of  his  life  that  have  challenged  the  world's  atten- 
tion were  simplicity,  sincerity  and  truth,  and  I  believe  also  that 
the  providence  of  God  ordered  and  set  the  scenes  of  Lincoln's 
early  pilgrimage  through  life  to  create,  form  and  fashion  these 
virtues.    A  family  of  four,,  a  loe-  cabin,  no  wkidow.  one  room  and 


'AND   RECIT'ATTONS   No.   26.  105 

a  door ;  no  furniture  but  rude  logs ;  no  machinery  but  an  axe ;  no 
light  but  the  flames  from  burning  brushes ;  no  steam  but  muscle 
to  drive  the  axe;  no  college  but  Bible  lore,  fairy  tales  and  country 
legends ;  no  art  but  the  fields  and  forests ;  no  music  but  the  song 
of  the  lark;  no  painting  but  the  sun  dipping  his  golden  plumage 
in  the  west. 

It  was  under  these  conditions  that  Abraham  Lincoln  was  born, 
his  character  framed,  his  imagination  formed  and  his  noble  and 
heroic  soul  entered  upon  life.  Not  by  birth  or  opportunity  was  this 
man  made.  In  the  strange  twilight  of  the  prairies,  unheralded  and 
unknown,  this  strangely  simple  life  began,  yet  the  whole  world 
has  heard  the  story,  from  his  studies  by  the  log  light  to  the  speech 
at  Gettysburg.  In  the  solitude  of  the  forests,  in  close  communion 
with  nature  and  nature's  God,  in  the  rude,  humble  toil  of  the 
frontiersman,  was  developed  the  innate  self-hood  of  the  man,  the 
power  that  touched  with  glory  of  transfiguration  that  simple,  earnest, 
sincere  man  as  he  uttered  the  closing  appeal  of  his  first  inaugural. 
We  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  effect  of  his  communion  with  nature 
in  the  words  of  a  simple  truth  uttered  in  a  speech  of  1856.  He 
said:  "In  1824  the  free  men  of  our  State  determined  that  those 
beautiful  groves  should  never  reecho  the  dirge  of  one  who  has 
no  title  to  himself.  By  their  resolute  determination  the  winds  that 
sweep  across  our  broad  prairies  shall  never  cool  the  parched  brow, 
nor  shall  the  unfettered  streams  that  bring  joy  and  gladness  to 
our  free  soil  water  the  tired  feet  of  a  slave;  but  so  long  as  those 
heavenly  breezes  and  sparkling  streams  bless  the  land,  or  the 
groves  and  their  fragrance  or  their  memory  remain,  the  humanity 
to  which  they  minister  shall  be  forever  free." 

Simplicity,  sincerity  and  truth — each  element  necessary  to  the 
existence  of  the  other — so  early  and  deeply  imbedded  in  his  strong 
and  simple  nature,  always  continued  to  be  Lincoln's  noblest  char- 
acteristics. This  great  triumvirate  of  power  and  virtue  kept  step 
with  his  advance,  ruled  him  well,  made  him  the  founder  of  a  great 
party,  the  deliverer  of  a  nation  and  the  preserver  of  the  Constitu- 
tion. 

I  venture  the  suggestion  that  no  man  will  ever  write  his  his- 
tory and  entitle  it,  "The  True  Abraham  Lincoln."    Abraham  Lin- 


106  WERNER'S  READINGS 

coin!  His  simplicity  and  directness  in  thought,  utterances  and 
writing!  He  began  his  studies  with  a  wooden  shovel  for  a  slate, 
logs  and  boards  for  paper;  he  died  the  greatest  master  of  prose 
ever  produced  by  the  English  race.  "  His  sincerity !  Enslaved  by 
poverty  and  deprivation,  his  young,  darkly  struggling  heart  longed 
for  freedom.     He  died  the  emancipator  of  a  race! 

The  birth  of  George  Washington  was  the  sign  of  American 
freedom.  The  death  of  Abraham  Lincoln  was  its  consummation. 
When  Washington  died,  part  only  was  free.  When  Lincoln  died 
there  was  no  slave.  The  same  spirit  of  civil  liberty  that  animated 
Washington  in  his  struggle  to  make  this  land  free,  and  Lincoln 
to  make  every  man  free,  is  to-day  moving  over  the  waters  of  our 
governmental  life.  As  the  spirit  of  Christianity  will  some  day  en- 
compass this  earth,  so  will  the  spirit  of  civil  liberty  enter  into  the 
formation  of  all  government  and  control  all  nations.  In  the 
work  of  libertyizing  this  world  the  American  flag  will  always  be 
in  the  lead.  On  whatever  land  the  Stars  and  Stripes  are  raised, 
it  will  be  for  freedom ;  whenever  lowered,  it  will  be  for  honor,  and 
whenever  unfolded,  it  will  be  forever  and  forever. 

If  these  counsels  or  this  work  be  of  men,  it  will  be  overthrown, 
but  if  it  is  of  God,  ye  will  not  be  able  to  overthrow  it.  We  do  not 
know  but  we  believe  that  Abraham  Lincoln's  work  was  done 
under  a  higher  guidance  than  ours,  and  will  not  be  overthrown. 
We  believe  that  in  his  last  hour,  when  all  the  faculty  of  the  broken 
spirit  had  faded  away  and  died  into  inanity,  imagination,  thought, 
effort,  enjoyment — then  at  last,  the  night  flower  of  belief  alone 
continued  to  bloom,  and  refreshed  with  its  perfume  his  last  dark- 
ness. We  do  not  know,  but  we  believe  that  when  Death's  cold  touch 
made  him  dreamless  here  forever  more,  instantly  he  felt  the  warm 
touch  of  the  Infinite  and  became  Immortal. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.   26.  107 

Sue  Waters' s  Housekeeping* 

By   THEO.    WHITING. 
Told  by  her  little  brother  to  the  young  man  who  came  to  call. 

SAY,  Mr.  Gray,  Sis  is  our  housekeeper,  nowadays.  That's  why 
she  can't  come  down  yet.  You  see,  Ma  had  to  go  over  to 
Aunt  Kate's,  and  she's  goin'  to  come  home  to-morrer,  but  I'll  be 
awfully  sorry — I  mean  for  her  when  she  has  to  clean  up  after  Sis. 
You  see,  Sis  has  alers  had  so  much  work  like  readin'  and  posy 
sewin'  to  do,  that  I  never  saw  her  in  the  kitchin  much  of  any  afore. 

When  Ma  went  away,  the  bread  went  too,  awful  quick,  and  Pa 
said  we'd  better  buy  some;  but  Sis  said  something  about  "Time  to 
learn  something  likely  to  be  useful,"  and  then  kinder  giggled.  I 
don't  see  why,  do  you?  Well,  she  made  the  bread,  but  she,  nor 
any  of  us,  didn't  eat  it.  She  give  me  a  nickel  to  carry  it  off  so  far 
she'd  never  see  it  again,  and  I  took  a  loaf  at  a  time  in  my  cart  and 
then  busted  a  wheel  off,  it  was  so  heavy. 

We  had  some  first-class  biscuit  though,  one  day.  She  told  me 
she  was  goin'  to  make  some  cream  cookies,  but  she  forgot  to  put 
in  any  sugar,  so  Dad  said  we  might  put  some  butter  on  'em  and  call 
'em  biscuit.  The  pies  was  the  worst  though.  You  see,  there  was 
a  lot  of  fractions,  for  the  book  told  what  to  use  for  six  pies  and 
two  crusts  for  a  pie.  Sue  wanted  to  make  two  chocolate  pies,  and 
they  need  only  one  crust  each,  so  she  got  me  to  get  my  slate  and 
pencil  and  do  the  figurin',  and  what  do  you  think,  I  forgot  to  in- 
vert my  divisor  and  multiplied  it  by  six  and  we  had  crust  for  thirty- 
six  pies.  I  found  out  it  was  my  mistake  when  I  looked  over  the 
work  next  day,  but  you  bet  I  never  told  Sue.  The  crust  was  good 
though,  and  I  ate  it  with  'lasses  on  it  and  it  beat  bread  all  to  pieces. 

That's  why  I  like  Sis's  cookin'.  I  ain't  been  real  hungry  at 
meal  times  once,  'cause  there's  always  something  of  her  cookin' 
I  can  have.  I  can  most  always  eat  it,  'cept  the  bread  and  puddin'. 
But  there,  I  hear  Sue  comin'  and  I  can't  tell  you  about  that,  nor  the 
other  things,  and  don't  tell  her  I  told  you  anything,  'cause  she  told 
me  not  to  tell  folks ;  but  you  are  so  near  one  of  the  fam'ly  it's  all 
right,  ain't  it? 


108  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  say,  I  advise  you  not  to  notice  her  red  face  nor  blistered 
hands,  'cause  she  told  Ben  Brown  last  night,  that  she  enjoyed 
housekeepin'  very  much  and  thought  it  must  be  nice  to  cook  for 
just  two,  and — but  I  must  go. 

Hello,  Sis !  Mr.  Gray's  had  to  wait  an  awful  long  time,  but 
he  don't  mind,  for  we  have  been  havin'  such  a  good  visit.  Can  I 
have  the  rest  of  that  f rostin'  now  ?  You  can't  put  it  on  that  burned 
cake,  can  you? 


cMatthew  the  cMiner. 

<By  FRANK  L.  STANTON. 

THE  wind  came  over  the  southland  pines 
When  the  icy  dews  were  falling, 
With  a  breath  of  bloom  from  the  vales  and  vines 
And  the  cry  of  a  far  voice  calling: — 

"Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life 

To  starving  children  and  weeping  wife! 

Dream  no  more  of  golden  store — 

The  wolf  of  hunger  howls  at  your  door! 

Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life 

To  starving  children  and  weeping  wife!" 

And  the  strong  man  shivered,  and  bowed  his  head 

And  thought  of  his  famished  fold; 
"Home — home,  with  empty  hands!"  he  said, 

And  cursed  his  dreams  of  gold. 

And  breaking  the  strength  of  the  soul  at  strife, 
That  cry — that  pierced  like  a  cruel  knife: — 
"To  starving  children  and  weeping  wife, 
Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life!" 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  109 

Did  he  weep  ?    It  was  never  a  time  for  tears ! 

Once  more  for  a  drowning  hold 
On  the  banks  of  life !    "God  keep  my  wife 

And  give  me  the  gleam  of  gold !" 

And  all  through  the  night  and  all  through  the  day 
He  toiled,  and  taught  his  lips  to  pray, 
While  ever  that  cry  from  the  depths  of  life: — 
"To  starving  children  and  weeping  wife, 
Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life!" 

When  lo !  in  the  dark  he  saw  the  gleam — 

The  glint  of  the  golden  ore ; 
And  pressed  the  sod,  and  cried  to  God: — 

"They  shall  hunger  and  weep  no  more!" 

Ended,  the  years  of  toil  and  strife — 
Light  in  the  darkness !     Light  and  life ! 
To  starving  weans  and  weeping  wife, 
Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life ! 

Away!  away!  o'er  the  rocky  hills 

In  fast  and  fearful  flight! 
Away!  away!  in  the  light  of  day, 

And  on  through  the  gloom  of  night! 

And  the  dreaming  townsfolk  heard  this  cry 
Ring  through  the  night  as  a  steed  dashed  by: — 
"Starving  children  and  weeping  wife — 
Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life!" 

And  the  goal  is  gained  and  the  welcome  kiss 

Of  wife  and  children  sweet ; 
And  he  scatters  the  gold,  a  hundred  fold — 

A  world's  wealth — at  their  feet! 


110  WERNER'S  READINGS 

But  lo !  he  mounts  his  steed  again, 

And  away  and  away  o'er  mount  and  plain — 

Down  the  valley  and  over  the  hill 

They  heard  his  cry,  all  strange  and  shrill — 

That  cry  of  pain  and  deep  heart-strife: — 

"Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life!" 

And  unto  this  day  the  mine  men  say 

That  ghostly  cry  they  heed, 
And  a  phantom  rider  fares  away — 

Away  on  a  phantom  steed! 

And  over  the  storm  and  over  the  strife 
They  hear  this  cry,  from  death  to  life : — 
"Matthew  the  miner,  ride  for  life — 
Ride  for  life!" 


De  Tired  Pickaninny's  Star-Song* 

By  SMARY  BAILLIE. 

DE  night's  a-comin'  on,  honey, 
De   air's   a-growin'   cool ! 
It's  time  dat  pickaninny 
Was  off  to  evenin'  school. 

You  dunno  wha'  dat  is,  honey? 

Well,  jes'  you  use  dem  eyes! 
De  school  you's  gwine  to,  honey, 

Is  dar,  up  in  de  skies. 

Dey's  no  black  babies  dar,  honey, 

Dar  all  de  child'en's  white; 
Dere  eyes,  dear,  am  dos-e  twinklin'  stars 

Dat  lighten  up  de  night. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.   26.  HI 

An'  how  you  gwine  get  dar,  honey? 

Why,  all  you'se  got  to  do 
Is  close  dem  eyes  so  big  and  wise, 

An'  let  you'  mammy  coo 

An'  rock  you,  till  you'  body 

Gwine  get  so  very  light, 
De  angels  gwine  to  tek  you; 

But  you  ain't  gwine  feel  no  fright, 

For  you  can't  help  love  dem  angels, 

And  dey'll  bar  you  up  so  high 
Dat  when  dey  sets  you  on  you'  feet, 

You'll  fin'  you's  in  de  sky! 

An'  when  you  looks  aroun'  you, 

As  fur's  you'  eyes  kin  peer 
Dey's  holes  poked  fro  de  hebins ; 

What  dem  holes  fur?     Why,  dear, 

When  lil'  child'en  goes  to  sleep 

An'  mounts  'way  up  dar, 
De  moon,  de  kin'  school-massa, 

Say,  "Here,  chile,  peek  fro  dis  star !" 

So  de  child'en,  dey  peeps  down,  honey, 

De  moon  fro  de  bigges'  hole ; 
An'  de  people  gazin'  up,  honey, 

Dunno  each  star's  a  soul ! 

D'you  know  what  dey  larns  dar,  honey? 

Dey  larns  what  makes   good,  great  men ; 
Dey  larns   dat  black  and  white  men's  hearts 

Am  jes'  de  same  in  de  en'. 

Dey  larn — hush,  hush,  lil'  baby, 

Dat  de  duty  ain't  alius  far; 
Dey  larns — why  de  angels  has  took  him, 

An'  look— -why,  dar's  my  star! 


112 


WERNER'S   READINGS 


(Attitudes  Illustrated  in  Verse. 


cArranged  by  SMARTHA  E.  'BARBOUR, 

Reflection:     "Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 

While  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary  over — " 

Despair:        "One  more  unfortunate,  weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate,  gone  to  her — " 

Respect:      "  'Most  noble  and  approved  Good  Masters, 

That  I  have  taken  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
Is  most  true,  true  that — '  " 

Suspense:      "I  leaned  out  the  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 
Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate ; 
Now  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  own  lover, 
Hush,    nightingale,    hush!      O    sweet    nightingale 
wait 
Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 
For " 

rAnimated  "There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys,  a  good  time  comrng — 
Attention:    We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 

But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray  of " 


Vehemence: 


Indecision: 


'  'To  arms  !     To  arms  !  To  arms !'  they  cry, 
'Grasp  the  shield  and  draw  the  smord; 
Lead  us  to  Philippi's  lord; 
Let  us  conquer  him  or ' " 


'Wait !'  he  said  in  a  whisper,  'wait ! 

We  must  break  it  to  his  mother.' 
'Break  it!     What!     My  ears  are  quick  and — 

Familiar    "It  ain't  the  funniest  thing  a  man  can  do, 
Repose:    Existing  in  a  country  when  it's  new,  for " 

Defiance;   "William  answered  short,  T  cannot  marry  Dora, 
By  my  life,  I  will  not  marry  Dora.' " 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  113 


When  the  Wind  Goes  Thro'  the  Maples* 

<By  ELLA  m.   TRUESDELL.  (J 

WHEN  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 
It  plays  in  the  grandest  tones; 
Not  as  it  sighs  thro'  the  pine-trees, 

In  fall  and  winter;  but  moans 
For  the  coming  desolation 

Of  earth,  like  one  desert  vast, 
When  all  we  know  of  summer, 
Seems  like  a  dream  that  has  passed. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

It  is  music  sweet  to  hear; 
'Tis  more  than  chiming  of  brooklet, 

Whose  bells  fall  so  silv'ry,  clear. 
It  is  more  than  robins'  "cheery," 

'Tis  more  than  all  song  of  birds, 
When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, — 

It's  gladness  too  deep  for  words. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, — 

Ah !  we  pause  and  listen  there, 
It  is  above  whitest  daisies, 

Above  grasses  green  and  fair. 
'Tis  bounded  by  cerulean  tints, 

It  comes  from  heaven's  own  blue; 
When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

It  is  heaven's  language  new. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

'Tis  music  sent  from  above; 
It  is  like  the  angels'  harping, 

It  is  like  their  song  of  love. 


114  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  yet  it  does  more  remind  us, 

Of  diapasons  so  grand — 
The  music  of  the  solemn  waves, 

All  notes  of  the  sea  and  land. 

i 

When   the   wind  goes   thro'  the  maples, — 

A  chorus  so  glad  of  sound, 
All  nature's  hymn  it  is  singing, 

Ah!  who  can  this  music  bound? 
The  paeans  of  many  nations, 

With  all  things  in  jubilee, 
When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

A  song  so  joyous  and  free. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

We  dream  of  our  youth  again, 
Of  the  bliss  we  then  were  seeking, 

All  life  but  a  clover  plain. 
Of  roses  beck'ning  us  onward, 

Of  the  blue  mounts  and  bright  streams; 
For  the  wind  music  of  maples, 

Does  oft  mingle  with  our  dreams. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

It  brings  to  us  scent  of  sweet  rose, 
The  violet  of  dark  woodland, 

Or  the  wayside  pink  that  blows; 
When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

Bowing  low,  as  knights,  they  seem, 
Each  in  his  gold  and  emerald, 

Where  the  sun  on  leaf  does  gleam. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 
And  the  rain-bells  tinkle,  too, 

It  makes  such  a  grand  orchestra, 
Without  even  song  of  dew, 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  115 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

It  cools  the  leaves  and  flowers, 
It  has  its  mission  of  healing, 

No  less  than  falling  showers. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples — 

Like  organ  chords  floating  sweet, 
You  listen  indeed  to  hear  them, 

They  seem  with  such  joy  to  greet. 
Lost  in  them  all  pain  and  sorrow, 

A  message  of  life  and  light, 
Of  the  new  Jerus'lem  waiting, 

Of  a  day  so  fair,  no  night. 

When  the  wind  goes  thro'  the  maples, 

Then  the  Angelus  does  ring; 
The  story  of  the  Christ-child, 

The  zephyrs  to  us  bring. 
We  hear  their  matins  and  vespers, 

We  pause  to  praise  and  to  pray; 
In  this  cathedral  worshipping, 

There  opens  Heaven's  own  way. 


T/ze  Fountain. 

By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
[James  Russell  Lowell,  born  Feb.  22,  1819.] 

INTO  the  sunshine,  full  of  the  light,1 
Leaping  and  flashing2  from  morn  till  night ! 
Into  the  moonlight,3  whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-like4  when  the  winds  blow! 

Into  the  starlight  rushing  in  spray,1 
Happy  at  midnight,5  happy  by  day ! 
Ever  in  motion,  blithesome  and  cheery,2 
Still  climbing  heavenward,2  never  aweary : — 


116  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Glad  of  all  weathers,6  still  seeming  best, 
Upward  or  downward,2  motion  thy  rest; — 
Full  of  a  nature  nothing  can  tame,7 
Changed  every  moment,6  ever  the  same.7 

Ceaseless  aspiring,8  ceaseless  content,9 
Darkness  or  sunshine  thy  element; — 
Glorious  fountain!6     Let  my  heart  be10 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant,  upward,11  like  thee ! 

I.  Right  hand  quickly  thrust  forward,  front  center  at  waist-line. 
2.  Upward  spiral  motion.  3.  Let  hand  slowly  descend.  4.  Sway 
from  side  to  side.  5.  Clasp  hands  at  chest.  6.  Both  arms  extended 
front,  palms  up.  7.  Both  hands  on  chest.  8.  Both  arms  extended 
upward  oblique.  9.  Palms  together  at  chest.  10.  Both  hands  on 
heart.     II.  Carry  upward  oblique. 


Curfew* 

By  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

[Henry  W.  Longfellow,  born  Feb.  27,  1807.] 

C*  OLEMNLY,  mournfully,  dealing  its  dole, 

v3      The  Curfew  Bell  is  beginning  to  toll.1 

Cover  the  embers,2  and  put  out  the  light  ;3 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning,  and  rest  with  the  night.4 

Dark  grow  the  windows,5  and  quenched  is  the  fire  ;2 
Sound  fades  into  silence,6 — all  footsteps  retire.7 
No  voice  in  the  chambers,  no  sound  in  the  hall!8 
Sleep  and  oblivion  reign  over  all  !9 

The  book  is  completed,10  and  closed,11  like  the  day; 
And  the  hand  that  has  written  it  lays  it  away.12 
Dim  grow  its  fancies;  forgotten  they  He; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes,2  they  darken  and  die. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  117 

Song  sinks  into  silence,13  the  story  is  told, 

The  windows  are  darkened,14  the  hearth-stone  is  cold.2 

Darker  and  darker  the  black  shadows  fall;15 

Sleep  and  oblivion  reign  over  all. 

1.  Shake  head.  The  voice  is  deep,  full  and  round.  2.  Left 
hand  horizontal  front,  palm  down.  3.  Keeping  left  hand  in  same 
position,  extend  right  hand  upward  oblique.  4.  Clasp  hands  in 
front  of  body.  5.  Both  hands  sweeping  from  upward  front  center 
around  to  sides,  palms  outward.  6.  Listening  attitude.  7.  Right 
hand  carried  from  mid-front  to  side.  8.  Shake  head.  9.  Both 
arms  extended  fullest  length  forward,  palms  down.  10.  Hold  right 
hand  mid-front,  a  little  way  out  from  body,  palm  up.  II.  Turn 
palm  over.  12.  Carry  hand  around  to  side.  13.  Both  arms  at 
fullest  length  out  at  sides ;  slowly  drop  at  sides.  14.  Extend  right 
hand  upward  oblique.  15.  Both  arms  upward  at  front  center; 
slowly  drop  until  at  waist-line,  hands  spreading  apart. 


cMaster. 

By  <A.   CONAN  DOYLE. 

MASTER  went  a-hunting, 
When  the  leaves  were  falling; 
We  saw  him  on  the  bridle  path, 

We  heard  him  gaily  calling. 
"Oh,  master,  master,  come  you  back, 
For  I  have  dreamed  a  dream  so  black !" 

A  glint  of  steel  from  bit  and  heel, 

The   chestnut   cantered    faster, 
A  red  flash  seen  amid  the  green, 

And  so  good-by  to  master. 

Master  came  from  hunting, 

Two    silent    comrades    bore    him; 

His  eyes  were  dim,  his  face  was  white, 
The  mare  was  led  before  him. 


118  WERNER'S   READINGS 

"Oh,  master,  master,  is  it  thus 
That  you  have  come  again  to  us?'* 

I  held  my  lady's  ice-cold  hand, 
They  bore  the   hurdle  past  her; 

Why  should  they  go  so  soft  and  slow? 
It  matters  not  to  master. 


Time  Doeth  All  Things  Well. 

By  JEROME  HARTE. 

A  LOVELY  maiden  came  down  the  garden  path  amid  the  dewy 
roses,  her  hands  clutched  upon  her  heart,  her  anguished  eyes 
strained  in  every  direction. 

"Ah,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  she  moaned,  lifting  her  glance  to  heaven. 
"Alas,  I  have  lost  my  heart !" 

Love  stepped  from  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  rose  bush  and  con- 
fronted her. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said  kindly,  and  stood  holding  out  her  heart  in 
one  hand ;  his  other,  grasping  a  pearly  arrow,  thrown  behind  his 
back.  The  maiden  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  trembling,  caught  the 
heart  in  her  hands. 

"But  it  is  broken!"  she  cried  with  straining  eyes.  "It  is 
broken !" 

"I  am  sorry,"  Love  said,  his  little  face  growing  sober.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  break  it.     Indeed  I'm  very  sorry." 

The  maiden  threw  herself  upon  her  face.  "Oh,  can  it  never  be 
mended?"  she  sobbed  in  pitiful  despair. 

Love's  face  brightened.  "Why,  yes,"  he  said,  "Father  Time  will 
make  it  whole  again !  He  passes  the  garden  gate  in  a  little  while. 
Run  and  ask  him  to  mend  it  for  you." 

The-maiden  struggled  to  her  feet  and  hastened  down  the  path  to 
the  garden  gate.  An  old  man  was  passing  along  the  wide,  white, 
dusty  road.  His  snowy  hair  fell  upon  his  broad,  bent  shoulders  and 
a  knotted  stick  aided  his  long  rapid  strides. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.   26.  ,  119 

"Stop  a  minute,  good  Father  Time,"  called  the  girl,  flying  through 
the  gate  and  down  the  road ;  "stop  a  minute  and  heal  my  heart !" 

But  Time  heeded  not,  and  the  maiden  ran  after  him,  along  the 
road,  through  dust  and  stones,  over  hill  and  level,  wildly  calling  and 
waving  her  hands.  The  sun  grew  hot  and  oppressive,  and  clouds 
came  and  rain  fell,  but  the  maiden  still  struggled  onward,  stagger- 
ing with  weariness,  hoarse  from  calling.  At  length  darkness  de- 
scended and  the  old  man  disappeared  in  the  gathering  gloom. 

Then  the  maiden  sank  down,  panting  and  helpless,  and  burst  into 
passionate  weeping,  "Alas !  Alas !  Time  would  not  wait,  and  my 
heart  will  be  ever  broken !" 

Suddenly  she  looked  up.  The  darkness  seemed  to  have  taken 
wings ;  golden  sunlight  streamed  round  her,  and  smiling  Love  stood 
by.  She  glanced  at  the  heart  in  her  hand.  Lo,  there  was  no  crack, 
nor  crevice  upon  its  surface !     Love  pointed  to  the  mended  heart. 

"I  told  you  Time  would  make  it  whole  again,"  he  said. 


Washington  cAcrostic. 


[For  ten  young  people  with  fans,  on  which  are  pasted  or  painted  the  letters 
W,  A.  S,  H,  etc.  When  each  has  recited  produce  fan,  which  may  have  been  held  behing 
back  and  spell  out  name.  After  each  stanza  wave  fans  back  and  forth  in  unison,  up, 
down,    right,  left;   then   fan   promiscuously.] 


pj/here  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 
When  gazing  on  the  Great, 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state? 
Yes,  one — the  first — the  last — the  best — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 
Whom  envy  dare  not  hate, 
Bequeath  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one! 


120  WERNER'S   READINGS 

c#nd  still,  we  trust,  the  years  to  be 

Shall  prove  his  hope  was  destiny, 
Leaving  our  flag  with  all  its  added  stars 
Unrent  by  faction,  and  unstained  by  warsl 


.Stand !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves ! 
Will  ye  give  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 
Ask  it,  ye  who  will. 

His  rule  of  justice,  order,  peace, 
Made  possible  the  world's  release; 
Taught  prince  and  serf  that  power  is  but  a  trust, 
And  rule  alone,  which  served  the  ruled,  is  just. 


/llustrious  warrior,  hail ! 

Oft  did  thy  sword  prevail 

O'er   hosts   of   foes. 
Come  and  fresh  laurels  claim ; 
Still  dearer  make  thy  name 
Long  as  immortal  Fame 

Her  trumpet  blows. 

jVame  at  which  tyrants  pale, 

And  their  proud  legions  quail, 
Their  boasting  done, 
While  Freedom  lifts  her  head. 
No  longer  filled  with  dread, 
Her  sons  to  victory  led 
By  Washington, 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  121 

graven  deep  with  edge  of  steel, 
Crowned  with  Victory's  crimson  seal, 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read ! 
Enrolled  with  his  hosts  that  led, 
Whose  blood  for  us — for  all — was  shed. 
Pay  our  sires  their  children's  debt, 
Love  and  honor — nor  forget 
Only  Union's  golden  key 
Guards  the  Ark  of  Liberty ! 

While  the  stars  of  Heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One! 

Traced  there  in  lines  of  light 
Where  all  pure  rays  unite, 
Obscured  by  none ; 
Brightest  on  history's  page, 
Of  any  clime  or  age, 
As  chieftain,  man  and  sage, 
Stands  Washington. 

Our  first  and  best !  his  ashes  lie 
Beneath  his  own  Virginian  sky. 
Forgive,  forget,  O   true  and  just  and  brave, 
The  storm  that  swept  above  thy  sacred  grave! 

Now  the  true  patriots  see, 

The  foremost  of  the  free, 

The  victory  won, 
In  Freedom's  presence  bow, 
While  sweetly  smiling  now 
She  wreathes  the  spotless  brow 
Of  Washington. 


122  WERNER'S  READINGS 

What's  in  a  cHame} 

A  Dialogue  for  Women. 

By  ELLERTON  GAY. 
Characters:  Mrs.  Belterre. 

Gwendolen,  her  daughter. 
Costumes:  Mrs.  Belterre  in  elegant  morning  dress.     Gwen- 
dolen in  riding-habit. 

Scene:  Mrs.  Belterre's  boudoir.     Time,  n  a.m. 

Mrs.  Belterre.  How  frightfully  energetic  you  are,  riding 
so  early,  after  dancing  till  three! 

Gwendolen.     It  freshens  one  up  so.     It  was  a  lovely  ball. 

Mrs.  B.  Quite  the  nicest  of  the  season.  You  danced  every- 
thing? 

Gwen.     Yes,  so  did  you ! 

Mrs.  B.  Not  everything.  [Apologetically. 1  I  would  not 
have  danced  if  you  had  been  partnerless. 

Gwen.    [smiling].     Your  partners  would  not  have  suited  me. 

Mrs.   B.     Why? 

Gwen.     They  are  either  too  old  or  too  young! 

Mrs.  B.  [condescendingly].  What  a  nice-looking  lad  Peter 
Glubb  has  grown.     Quite  nice  manners,  too ! 

Gwen.  [with  suppressed  indignation].  Lad!  He  is  twenty- 
two. 

Mrs.  B.  Really !  It  seems  only  the  other  day  he  was  a  small 
boy,  with  a  perpetual  cold  in  his  head,  and  no  handkerchief.  I 
thought  he  did  not  seem  pleased  when  I  told  him  he  had  grown 
since  Christmas. 

Gwen.  He  believed  you  had  said  it  to  snub  him,  as  he  has 
been  five-feet-eleven  since  he  was  eighteen. 

Mrs.  B.  He  dances  beautifully.  [Suddenly.]  How  many 
did  you  have  with  him. 

Gwen.    [hesitatingly].     Five — I  think. 

Mrs.  B.     Oh !    He  is  twenty-two  and  you  are  eighteen. 

Gwen.  And  you  are  thirty-seven.  What  have  our  ages  to 
do  with  it? 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  123 

Mrs.  B.  [absently].  What  a  name  to  bestow  on  the  lady  of 
his  choice  !     Mrs.  Peter  Glubb ! 

Gwen.  I  don't  think  it  matters  what  one  is  called.  Peter  is  a 
gentleman. 

Mrs.  B.  He  is,  and  he  does  not  sniff — much — now.  He  said 
very  flattering  things  to  me.     What  could  have  been  his  reason? 

Gwen.     Why  seek  a  reason?     Doubtless  they  were  sincere. 

Mrs.  B.  Would  he  have  said  them  if  my  wise  little  daughter 
had  already  accepted  the  proposal  that  Mr.  Ponsonby  is  waiting 
an  opportunity  to  make? 

Gwen.  There  I  have  you,  mother !  Talking  of  names,  I 
happen  to  know  that  Mr.  Ponsonby  was  born  "Smithers !" 

Mrs.   B.    [hastily].     How  did  you  hear  that? 

Gwen.  From  some  one  whose  father  knows  about  the  stone 
that  was  removed  from  the  church  wall,  because  it  set  forth  that 
the  grandfather,  John  Smithers,  had  contracted  to  supply  the  gov- 
ernment with  oil  for  lighthouses,  and  had  thereby  made  a  fortune. 

Mrs.  B.  The  fortune  was  considerable  and  exists,  though  the 
tombstone  has  disappeared.  Has  Mr.  Glubb — Glubb ! — any  tutor- 
ing to  do  now. 

Gwen.    [demurely].     No.     He  has  just  left  rTis  last  place. 

Mrs.  B.  Poor  boy,  what  an  arduous  position !  Lady  Sophia 
saw  you  dancing  with  him,  and  asked  his  name.  How  funny  she 
is;  you  would  have  laughed  at  her  humorous  grimace  when  I  told 
it! 

Gwen.     Lady   Sophia   is  a  vulgar  old  thing. 

Mrs.  B.  She  is  charming,  and  such  a  mimic.  Even  you  could 
not  have  helped  laughing  at  the  inimitable  way  she  took  off  dear 
old  Clarissa  to  the  life.  By-the-bye,  Clarissa  is  Mr.  Glubb's  aunt; 
what  odd  relations  the  poor  boy  has ! 

Gwen.    [hotly].     Peter  did  not  make  his   relations. 

Mrs.  B.  [sotto  voce].  No,  his  relations  made  him — at  least 
some  of  them  did.  How  nicely  you  stand  up  for  your  young 
friend,  dear;  but  your  doing  so  might  be  misunderstood  in  some 
quarters. 

Gwen.  If  you  mean  by  Mr.  Ponsonby,  that  does  not  concern 
me. 


124  .        WERNER'S   READINGS 

Mrs.  B.  Then  it  should,  Gwen.  The  dear  fellow  is  devoted  to 
you,  and  he  is  the  match  of  the  season. 

Gwen.    [impulsively].     Mother,  Peter ■ 

Mrs.  B.  [mimicking].  Father,  Peter!  Dear  child,  really  I 
think  you  must  leave  off  calling  Mr.  Glubb  by  his  ugly  christian 
name — a  choice  of  evils — now  that  he  is  twenty-two. 

Gwen.   [blurting  it  out].     Peter  proposed  to  me  last  night. 

Mrs.  B.  [uneasily].  How  very  amusing!  Of  course  you 
laughed  it  off? 

Gwen.     No,  I  took  it  quite  seriously.     I  love  him. 

Mrs.  B.  Love  him!  What  an  odd  girl  you  are,  Gwen.  You 
can't  possibly  mean  you  prefer  to  be  Mrs.  Peter  Glubb,  on  nothing 
a  year,  rather  than  Mrs.  John  Plantagenet  Ponsonby,  with  ever  so 
many  thousands !  You  are  no  more  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  a  poor 
man  than  the  kitchen-maid  downstairs  is  to  be  a  duchess. 

Gwen.     I  did  not  exactly  accept  Peter. 

Mrs.  B.  [fondly] .     There  speaks  my  dear  child ! 

Gwen.     I  told  him  to  talk  to  you. 

Mrs.  B.  Quite  right.  I  will  speak  to  him  kindly,  and  tell 
him  if  you  are  both  free  in  five  years,  and  of  the  same  mind,  when 
he  has  something  to  marry  on,  that  I  will  not  withhold  my  consent. 
Never  fear,  I  will  let  him  down  gently. 

Gwen.  He  does  not  want  to  marry  until  he  is  in  a  position  to 
keep  me. 

Mrs.  B.  He  is  mighty  modest!  When  will  that  be,  on  a 
beggarly  tutorship  of  £250  a  year ;  and  precarious  at  that  ?  In 
the  meanwhile,  darling,  you  will  be  nice  to  Mr.  Ponsonby,  won't 
you  ?  His  chestnut  team  is  the  best  in  London ;  his  coach  the  best 
turned  out;  his  town-house  the  best  appointed;  and  his  place  in 
Shropshire — though  I  confess  it  is  absolutely  raw  with  newness — 
the  best  in  the  county;  while  he  himself  is 

Gwen.    [dispassionately].     Knockkneed! 

Mrs.  B.  It  is  scarcely  perceptible,  except  in  knickerbockers,  or 
a  kilt,  and  you  can  veto  his  wearing  those  garments.     He  has 

Gwen.     A  sloping  forehead! 

Mrs.  B.  It  shelves  back  a  little,  I  admit,  but  he  is  quite  nice- 
looking. 

Gwen.     Not  so  handsome  as  Peter  Glubb. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  125 

Mrs.  B.  [crossly j.  Don't  harp  on  that  odious  name.  It  jars 
on  me  terribly. 

Gwen.  I  forgot  to  say  Peter's  uncle  in  Australia  died  some 
time  ago  and  has  left  him  his  money. 

Mrs.  B.  [sceptically].     A  couple  of  thousands? 

Gwen.  A  couple  of  millions — I  forget  if  it  is  two  or  three 
millions. 

Mrs.  B.  You  don't  mean  it !  And  you  really  love  him,  dear- 
est? 

Gwen.  Yes,  I  have  always  been  fond  of  him — though,  of 
course  I  should  have  hated  to  be  poor. 

Mrs.  B.  [with  generous  impulse].  It  shall  never  be  said  that 
I  thwarted  my  only  child  where  her  affections  are  set.  You  are 
sure  about  the  uncle? 

Gwen.  Quite ;  he — I  mean  Peter — is  coming  this  morning, 
and  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 

Mrs.  B.  [reflectively].  I  think  there  were  some  Glubbs  in 
Hereford  who  had  a  hyphen  and  another  name ;  has — ahem ! — 
Peter — another  name? 

Gwen.     Yes,  he  is  called  Merrion. 

Mrs.  B.  Mrs.  Merrion-Glubb !  That's  not  so  bad!  [A  ring.] 
This  must  be  Mr.  Merrion-Glubb,  darling. 


A  Reasonable  cMan. 

Tra.nsta.ted  from  the  French  by  Lucy  Hayes  Macqueen. 
Monologue  for  a  Man. 

[Reciter  enters,  with  letter  in  hand.]  What  is  this?  A  letter 
from  my  wife?  Why  does  she  write?  I  saw  her  only  this  morn- 
ing. It  is  some  feminine  idea.  She  has  exaggerated  notions.  I 
hate  exaggeration.  [Puts  letter  in  pocket.]  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
about  a  little  adventure  of  mine,  no,  it  is  more  than  an  adventure, 
it  is  a  history;  and  yet  it  is  hardly  a  history,  for  such  a  dignified 


126  WERNER'S   READINGS 

name  can  not  be  given  to  what  happened  to  me  no  later  than  this 
very  day. 

I  awoke  this  morning  very  happy — well,  not  exactly  happy,  still 
in  very  good  humor  with  myself  and  all  the  world.  I  do  not  be- 
long to  that  class  of  persons  who  laugh,  "He,  he,  he!"  without 
knowing  what  they  are  laughing  about;  neither  do  I  belong  to 
that  other  class  who  cry  "Oh,  oh,  oh !"  without  having  the  remotest 
idea  of  what  they  are  crying  about.  No,  I  am  a  serious  man,  well, 
not  exactly  serious,  but  reasonable,  yes,  that  is  the  exact  word, — 
reasonable.  It  is  not  because  I  am  old  that  I  am  reasonable,  in- 
deed, I  am  younger  than  Ilook.  Still,  I  am  not  young  enough  to  be 
idiotic  like  most  young  people  who  think  they  can  do  everything  that 
ever  was  done  under  the  sun,  who  go  into  ecstacies  over  every  flower 
they  see  and  cry  out:  "Oh,  spring!  Oh,  the  flowers!"  Pshaw! 
let  us  not  exaggerate  spring.  It  is  simply  the  end  of  winter,  or  the 
beginning  of  summer,— it  is  spring. 

Again,  I  am  not  like  old  people  who  shake  their  heads  and  say 
they  do  not  like  this  and  they  do  not  like  that,  who  say :  [Indiffer- 
ently.] "Spring!  The  flowers!  Ah,  well,  the  flowers  grow  on 
plants.  They  come  out  after  the  leaves."  Pshaw !  let  us  not  exag- 
gerate. 

But  I  am  digressing.  To  return  to  the  little  tale  I  was  going  to 
relate.  I  must  tell  you  that  I  bought  a  hat  to-day,  with  an  electric 
lining.  Not  that  I  believe  in  modern  inventions,  but  I  saw  this 
particular  hat,  I  bought  it — at  a  reasonable  price.  For  the  rest,  it 
was  very — no,  it  was  reason — I  mean  it  was  a  seasonable,  decorous 
hat.  Then,  this  morning,  I  went  out  feeling  very — no ;  but  feeling 
well.  The  weather  was  fine  and  I  said :  "I  will  buy  a  newspaper." 
Not  that  I  am  carried  away  with  love  of  politics,  nothing  of  the  kind, 
because  many  people  cry  out :  "Politics !  there  is  nothing  worth 
calling  politics  except  this,  really  nothing  but  this!"  Again,  I  do 
not  belong  to  the  opposite  political  faction  who  shout:  "Don't  be- 
lieve that.  It  does  not  amount  to  anything.  You  must  vote  this 
way,  etc."  Pshaw!  let  us  not  exaggerate.  In  politics  it  is  not  nec- 
essary to  believe — you  follow  me?  Well,  it  is  not  necessary  to  be- 
lieve that  everything  is  good  or  bad  simply  because  some  one  tells 
you  that  everything  is  so.     Do  you  understand  ? 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  127 

To  return :  I  buy  a  newspaper,  I  open  it,  the  wind  blows  hard, 
no,  not  very  hard,  but  still  a  pretty  good  gale,  so  I  close  my  paper, 
for  after  all  it  makes  no  difference  whether  I  read  it  or  not — it  is  all 
the  same.  The  newspaper  men  say  so  much  is  white,  so  much  is 
black.  Why  should  all  that  be  white  and  all  this  be  black?  I  do 
not  agree  with  them. 

Well,  the  wind  blew  harder  and  I  felt  it  blowing  my  hat  off  my 
head.  I  pulled  that  hat  down  tight  over  my  ears.  I  know  that  it  is 
not  becoming  pulled  down  thus.  Still  it  is  not  ugly.  I  have  my 
own  ideas  on  the  subject  of  beauty.  When  a  man  pulls  down  his 
hat  this  way  over  his  ears,  he  is  not  as  handsome  as  Apollo,  still  it 
(the  hat)  is  useful  stuck  on  in  that  way  and  whatever  is  useful  and 
convenient  can  never  be  ugly.  Sculptors  and  artists  tell  us  so  much. 
Still,  if  you  listen  to  artists !  Do  you  know  I  was  acquainted  with 
a  musician  once,  and  he  would  not  even  look  at  any  music  except  his 
own.  He  said  all  music  except  his,  was  good  for  nothing.  But  do 
not  let  us  speak  of  musicians;  we  would  have  to  discuss  them  all 
night. 

Well,  I  walked  along,  and  my  newspaper  was  not  altogether 
closely  shut  on  account  of  the  wind  which  blew  it  open  once  in  a 
while.  I  was  just  about  to  step  on  the  bridge — I  do  not  now  recall 
just  zvhat  bridge — when  I  perceived  a  little  woman  ahead  of  me.  I 
tell  you  she  was  pretty.  No,  do  not  let  us  exaggerate,  but  she  held 
up  her  gown  like  this.  [Affected  gesture  of  holding  up  train.]  She 
was  [looks  volumes]  no,  she  was  not  [another  meaning  look] — at 
least,  you  know  what  she  was.  I  do  not  belong  to  that  class  of  per- 
sons who  cry  out,  "The  ladies !  the  ladies !"  who  have  the  subject 
forever  on  their  lips.  Neither  do  I  belong  to  that  class  who  twirl 
their  moustaches  and  say,  "Oh,  these  women !  these  women !"  I  say 
simply,  "The  ladies !" 

I  thought  she  was  quite  chic,  this  little  woman.  I  can  not  say 
that  I  was  in  love  with  her  because  there  are  too  many  people  who 
cry  out :  "Oh,  love,  love !  and  who  proceed  to  say  to  every  woman 
they  meet :  "I  love  you !  I  love  you !"  Pshaw !  do  not  let  us  ex- 
aggerate. 

I  held  my  newspaper  in  one  hand  and  with  the  other  I  pulled  that 
hat  down  close  over  my  ears  because  the  wind  was  blowing  hard.     I 


128  WERNER'S  READINGS 

walked  like  this  beside  the  little  woman.  You  will  say  that  was  not 
the  right  thing  for  a  married  man  to  do.  Yes,  I  am  married— mar- 
ried after  a  fashion.  Oh,  of  course,  I  was  married  in  a  legitimate 
way — had  a  license  and  all  that — and  I  love  my  wife.  Pshaw !  do 
not  let  us  exaggerate.  I  esteem  my  wife;  no,  I  have  sincere  affec- 
tion for  her.  Still,  you  know,  I  am  not  of  that  class  of  men,  who  cry 
out  on  every  occasion :  "Marriage !  marriage !  It  is  a  sacrament !" 
Pshaw!  it  is  only  necessary  to  say  [indifferently],  "Marriage!  mar- 
riage !" 

To  be  jealous  is  a  great  exaggeration.  For  instance,  my  wife 
has  a  cousin  named  Oscar.  He  is  a  good  boy,  well,  no,  he  is  a  man 
like  the  rest  of  us.  For  a  year  past,  our  relations  have  been  some- 
what strained,  that  is,  I  know  him  without  knowing  him.  You  un- 
derstand. You  laugh  and  say:  "Well,  one  is  not  obliged  to  enter- 
tain one's  wife's  cousins  at  one's  house."  Pshaw !  let  us  not  exag- 
gerate. 

Remember,  my  wife  is  always  nervous.  For  two  years  past, 
every  time  that  I  have  ever  addressed  a  reasonable  remark  to  her,  she 
replied  with  a  nervous  attack.  I  do  not  wish  to  denounce  marriage. 
I  know  very  well  that  marriage  is  a  good  thing  for  the  family.  One 
says  all  when  one  says  that.  What  is  the  family  ?  It  is  Mr.  So  and 
So  and  Mrs.  So  and  So  and  their  children — when  they  have  children. 
I  do  not  wish  to  denounce  the  family,  nor  propriety.  It  is  proper  to 
possess  as  much  as  you  can,  for  when  you  own  a  good  deal  you  are 
considered  a  safe  and  proper  person  to  have  around.  Then,  one  can 
not  deny  your  propriety.  But  do  not  let  us  discuss  propriety;  it 
would  take  up  too  much  time. 

Then,  as  I  held  my  newspaper  in  one  hand  and  my  hat  in  the 
other,  a  gust  of  wind  blew  my  paper  out  of  my  left  hand.  I  clutched 
at  the  paper  with  my  right  hand,  but  in  doing  so,  I  let  go  of  my  hat. 
The  little  woman  began  to  walk  very  fast.  I  wished  to  follow  her. 
Another  gust  of  wind  came  along.  It  raised  my  hat  off  my  head. 
In  order  to  seize  my  hat,  I  let  go  of  my  paper  and  then  I  had  neither 
paper,  hat,  nor  little  woman. 

I  saw  my  hat  fly  like  this  [undulatory  gesture]  into  the  Seine  as 
I  stood  bare-headed  on  the  bridge.  A  street  gamin  saw  my  plight 
and  laughed  aloud.     It  was  an  exaggerated  laugh.     A  passer-by  as- 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  129 

sured  me  that  I  would  recover  my  hat  by  calling  at  the  office  for  lost 
articles,  at  Saint-Cloud.  You  know  they  drag  the  Seine  and  fish  out 
lost  articles  and  deposit  them  in  an  office  at  Saint-Cloud?  [Con- 
sults watch.]  It  is  not  late,  it  is  not  early,  it  is  just  my  time.  Apro- 
pos, I  wonder  what  my  wife  can  have  to  say  to  me?  Some  exag- 
geration, I  fear.     [Opens  letter  and  reads.] 

"Life  is  impossible  with  you,  so  I  am  going  away  with  Oscar." 
[In  a  stupor.]  You  see,  she  exaggerates.  Ah,  well,  there  are  many 
people  who  in  my  position  would  cry  aloud  and  say :     "My  wife !" 

But  I,  no,  I  am  going  to  find  my  wife  and  talk  reasonably  with 
her.  Though  women  and  men  and  everything  else  under  Heaven, 
even  Nature  herself  should  become  exaggerated,  I  shall  find  my  hat, 
I  shall  find  my  wife  and  I  shall  remain  reasonable.     [Exits  slowly.] 


A    Water   Color. 

Monologue  for  a  Woman. 

[Enters,  laughing.]  How  absurd  it  is!  How  utterly  absurd! 
Is  it  possible  I  can  laugh  still?  It  must  be  that  I  have  no  heart. 
[Puts  hand  on  heart.]  Yes,  it  beats  and  beats  calmly.  So  much 
the^  better ;  I  am  reassured. 

What  a  craze  men  have  for  marrying  widows.  I  am  a  widow. 
Some  one  presented  to  me  ayoung  man,  by  name  Louis  de  Monta- 
lembert,  neither  good  nor  bad — rather  more  bad  than  good,  per- 
haps— rather  distinguished  looking,  sporting  an  array  of  inoffensive 
little  orders,  saying  neither  too  much  nor  enough,  with  his  hair 
combed  and  recombed  in  most  exquisite  fashion.  A  sufficiently 
presentable  husband  after  all.  All  winter  that  man  pays  court  to 
me.  It  neither  ends,  nor  does  it  become  interesting.  I  meet  him 
everywhere  I  go  and  everywhere  I  do  not  go.  As  spring  advances, 
Louis  rests  in  the  background,  and  I  remain  as  indifferent  as  I  was 
the  first  day.    When  July  arrives  I  prepare  to  leave  town. 

"  Where  do  you  go  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  To  Dieppe." 

"  Then  I  go  also." 


130  WERNER'S    READINGS 

He  also!  However,  all  the  world  is  at  liberty  to  go  to  Dieppe, 
and  I  should  not  complain.  But  I  had  been  here  only  eight  days, 
when,  last  evening,  a  visiting  card  was. brought  to  me.  It  was  he! 
I  should  have  expected  him,  but  I  call  the  ocean  to  witness  that  I 
did  not. 

"  Most  happy  to  see  you  again,"  he  said,  as  his  rose  and  white 
visage  appeared,  for  he  is  [laughing] — he  was  always  rose  and 
white !    And  he  added,  "  You  find  it  amusing  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well  enough !  " 

"  You  like  the  climate?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  How  do  you  kill  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  promenades,  the  Casino,  the  bath — " 

"  The  bath?    Do  you  swim  ?" 

"  Well  enough ;  and  you  ?  " 

"Oh,—/—!"  And  he  said  that  "Oh,  I.!*'  with  such  a  self- 
satisfied  air,  that  I  already  saw  in  fancy  that  carefully  combed  head 
in  salt  water. 

"  What  time  do  you  bathe  to-morrow  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Six  o'clock." 

"  Evening?  " 

"  No ;  morning." 

"  In  the  morning,"  he  echoed,  "  at  low  tide !  What  an  idea !  But 
I  understand;  you  enjoy  trying  to  swim  and  do  not  care  to  be  seen 
by  the  scoffers  on  shore." 

I  remained  quite  silent  from  amusement  and  surprise.  He  took 
his  leave.     I  confess  I  wondered  what  he  was  going  to  do  next. 

This  morning  at  six  o'clock  I  left  the  bath-house,  as  I  had  told 
him.  I  threw  a  searching  glance  toward  the  men's  side,  and  saw 
but  one  bather.  On  the  woman's  side  there  was  but  one,  and  that 
was  I.  The  other  bather,  enveloped  in  his  robe,  walked  across  the 
pebbles  toward  the  sea,  which  seemed  indisposed  to  admit  him  to 
its  embrace,  for  it  receded  in  a  manner  quite  abnormal.  We  plunged 
in,  the  mysterious  bather  and  I,  always  far  apart.  He  left  his  robe 
on  the  beach,  and  when  I  saw  him  I  thought  my  eyes  had  deceived 
me.  Brightened  by  the  rising  sun,  feet  and  part  of  his  legs  em- 
bedded in  the  sand,  the  unknown  had  the  appearance  of  a  little 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  131 

ball  that  rolled  around  aimlessly.  "  It  is  not  he,"  I  said  to  myself, 
plunging  into  the  sea,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  the  man. 
After  a  certain  number  of  strokes  I  reached  the  boat  that  marked 
the  limit  for  prudent  swimmers.  At  this  hour  the  boat  was  empty. 
I  went  around  it,  and  what  did  I  find  behind  it  but  a  man,  who,  in 
turning  to  face  me,  said : 

"  Madame,  I  have  the  honor  to  salute  you." 

"  Ah,  it  is  you  ?  " 

He  was  there,  the  little  ball,  on  the  moment !  His  hair,  which 
he  had  carefully  kept  dry,  was  still  artistically  arranged,  and  his 
skin  was  always  rose  and  white. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  beg  pardon  for  presenting 
myself  before  you  in  so  neglige  a  costume." 

"  But  you  could  not  very  well  wear  your  black  coat.  Do  you  go 
far  in  this  style?  " 

"  Why,  yes ;  and  you  ?  "  and  he  began  to  eye  me  uneasily. 

I  continued  to  swim  ahead  and  he  kept  near  me,  moving  with 
as  much  grace  as  he  could  muster.  We  were  going  beautifully  when 
suddenly :  i  "v- 

"  But — you  know — you  know — how — to  swim !  "  he  finished,  his 
voice  very  choked  and  he  quite  oblivious  of  a  great  wave  which 
promptly  submerged  him.    When  he  reappeared  I  repliedTgently : 

"  Oh,  I  swim !  "  He  seized  the  plank,  advising  me  to  do  the 
same. 

"  You  are  tired,  already  ?  "  This  question  would  certainly  have 
raised  every  hair  on  his  head  had  they  not  been  so  solidly  glued  to 
his  scalp  by  the  salt  waves. 

"  /.'  tired?  A  swimmer  such  as  I?  I  am  never  tired !  I  will  go — 
to  America !  " 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered,  "  let  us  go."  [Make  gesture  of  swim- 
ming.'] 

But  he  had  talked  better  than  he  swam.  He  threw  me  by  stealth 
looks  full  of  wrath  and  salt  water.  He  murmured,  "It  is  for  you  I 
fear  the  fatigue." 

He  was  obliged  to  speak  and  breathe  and  swallow  salt  water  all 
in  a  moment.    I  swam  on  calmly. 


132  WERNER'S    READINGS 

"  My  departure  waits  upon  yours.  [Imitate  movement  of  swim- 
ming.}    I  shall  be  desolate  if  any  imprudence — " 

"  Come  on,  do  not  be  afraid/'  I  interrupted. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  he  cried,  with  a  vigorous  plunge  to  escape  a 
breaker,  "  and  then  we  are  alone."  Ah,  yes ;  we  were  alone !  "  I 
wish,"  he  continued,  "  that  this  marriage — you  know  what  I  would 
say — " 

"Well?" 

"  In  short,  I  wish  you  would  make  up  your  mind  to — " 

I  could  not  hear  the  end  of  this  remark — Louis  de  Monta- 
lembert  had  disappeared !  I  made  a  dive  after  him,  grasped  him  by 
the  head,  and  being  a  passable  swimmer,  was  lucky  enough  to  float 
him  to  the  boat,  into  which  I  lifted  him,  not  without  a  good  deal  of 
trouble.  He  was  so  heavy  !  And  ugly  !  Heavens  !  how  ugly !  In 
spite  of  the  gravity  of  the  circumstances  I  could  not  help  laughing. 
It  is  in  such  moments  that  one  reads  the  heart  clearly — I  did  not 
love  him — I  never  had  loved  him.  Ah,  he  was  no  longer  rose  and 
white — he  was  a  most  beautiful  green !  How  could  I  love  a  man 
so  green  as  that !  Once  in  the  boat,  I  began  to  wonder  what  I 
should  do  next.  I  saw  two  or  three  bathers  on  the  shore  coming  to 
our  assistance.  ;.S-uddenly  I  remembered  that  in  a  swoon  one  must 
put  the  patient's  head  lower  than  his  feet.  It  seemed  absurd;  but 
as  I  knew  nothing  else  to  do,  I  seized  him  by  the  ankles  and,  climbing 
on  the  seat,  dragged  him  into  a  position  as  vertical  as  it  was  dis- 
agreeable. I  can  assure  you  his  head  was  as  low  as  possible !  As 
I  held  him  so,  I  said  to  myself,  "  Never  did  a  fiance  find  himself  in 
such  a  situation  before  his  betrothed."     It  is  incredibly  funny ! 

By  this  time  the  bathers  had  reached  us.  I  was  very  tired,  but 
in  good  spirits,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  reviving.  His  arms 
moved ;  I  called  to  the  others,  "  He  lives !  " 

"  Let  him  alone,"  they  screamed,  "  let  him  alone!  " 

I  let  go,  and  he  tumbled  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Ah,  he 
was  no  longer  green — he  was  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock !  The  blood 
had  begun  to  circulate,  and  had  gone  to  his  head.  The  boat  took 
us  safely  to  shore,  where  there  were  already  a  number  of  people. 
They  had  heard  what  had  happened  and  began  to  congratulate  me. 
Much   astonished,    I    inquired   the    reason   of   these    compliments. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  133 

Thereupon  Louis  de  Montalembert,  who  had  quite  revived,  and  had 
also  donned  a  bath-robe,  cried  out : 

"  Why  these  compliments  ?  Why  you  have  saved  my  life  !  "  At 
that  moment  I  heard  behind  me  one  of  the  bathing-masters  mut- 
tering : 

"  If  it  were  I  who  had  saved  him,  I'd  have  twenty-five  francs; 
it  is  the  prize." 

Louis  continued.  (By  this  time  he  was  neither  rose,  nor  white, 
nor  green,  nor  red — he  was  orange!)  "Yes,"  he  said,  "you  have 
saved  me !    What  can  I  do  to  repay  you !  " 

I  replied  calmly,  "  Twenty-five  francs.  It  seems  that  is  the 
prize."  And  as  the  crowd  began  to  laugh.-  I  flew  into  my  cabin, 
and  how  I  laughed  myself.    How  could  I  e*,or  marry  a  rainbow! 


Ho<w  Lucy  Backslid* 

<By  <PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR. 

DE  times  is  mighty  stirrin'  'mong  de  people  up  ouah  way, 
Dey  'sputin'  an'  dey  argyin'  an'  fussin'  night  an'  day; 
An'  all  dis  monst'ous  trouble  dat  hit  meks  me  tiahed  to  tell 
Is  'bout  dat  Lucy  Jackson  dat  was  sich  a  mighty  belle. 

She  was  de  preachhah's  lavoured,  an'  he  tol'  de  chu'ch  one  night 
Dat  she  traveled  throj  de  cloud  o'  sin  a-bearin'  of  a  light ; 
But,  now,  I  'low  he  c'inkin'  dat  she  mus'  'a'  los'  huh  lamp, 
Case  Lucy  done  backslided  an'  dey  trouble  in  de  camp. 

Huh  daddy  wants  to  beat  huh,  but  huh  mammy  daihs  him  to, 
Fu'  she  lookin'  at  de  question  f'om  a  ooman's  pint  o'  view ; 
An'  she  say  dat  now  she  wouldn't  have  it  cliff 'ent  ef  she  could ; 
Dat  huh  darter  only  acted  jes'  lak  any  othah  would. 


134  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Cose  you  know  w'en  women  argy,  dey  is  mighty  ea?y  ied 
By  dey  hea'ts  an'  don't  go  foolin'  'bout  de  reasons  of  de  hairi. 
So  huh  mammy  laid  de  law  down  (she  ain'  reckernizin'  wrong), 
But  you  got  to  mek  erlowance  fu'  de  cause  dat  go  along. 

Now  de  cause  dat  made  Miss  Lucy  fu'  to  th'ow  huh  grace  away 
I's  afeard  won't  baih  no  'spection  w'en  hit  come  to  jedgment  day; 
Do'  de  same  t'ing  been  a-wo'kin'  evah  sence  de  worl'  began, — 
De  ooman  disobeyin'  fu'  to  'tice  along  a  man. 

Ef-  you  'tended  de  revivals  which  we  held  de  wintah  pas', 
You  kin  rickolec'  dat  convuts  was  a-comin'  thick  an'  fas' ; 
But  dey  ain't  no  use  in  talkin',  dey  was  all  lef  in  de  lu'ch 
W'en  ol'  Mis'  Jackson's  dartah  foun'  huh  peace  an'  tuk  de  chu'ch. 

W'y  she  shouted  ovah  evah  inch  of  Ebenezah's  flo' ; 

Up  into  de  preachah's  pulpit  an'  f 'om  dah  down  to  de  do' ; 

Den  she  hugged  an.'  squeezed  huh  mammy,  an'  she  hugged  an' 

kissed  huh  dad, 
An'  she  struck  out  at  huh  sister,  people  said,  lak  she  was  mad. 

I  has  'tended  some  revivals  dat  was  lively  in  my  day, 
An'  I's  seed  folks  git  'uligion  in  mos'  evah  kin  o'  way ; 
But  I  tell  you,  an'  you  b'lieve  me  dat  I's  speakin'  true  indeed, 
Dat  gul  tuk  huh  'ligion  ha'dah  dan  de  ha'dest  yit  I's  seed. 

Well,  f'om  dat,  'twas  "  Sistah  Jackson,  won't  you  please  do  dis 

er  dat?" 
She  mus'  alius  sta't  de  singin'  w'en  dey'd  pass  erroun'  de  hat, 
An'  hit  seemed  dey  wasn't  nuffin'  in  dat  chu'ch  dat  could  go  by 
'Dout  Sistah  Lucy  Jackson  had  a  finger  in  de  pie. 

But  de  sayin'  mighty  trufeful  dat  hit  easiah  to  sail 
W'en  de  sea  is  ca'm  an'  gentle  dan  to  weathah  out  a  gale. 
Dat's  whut  made  dis  ooman's  trouble ;  ef  de  sto'm  had  kep'  away, 
She'd  had  enough  'uligion  fu'  to  lasted  out  huh  day. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  135 

Lucy  went  wid  'Lishy  Davis,  but  w'en  she  jined  chu'ch,  you  know 
Dah  was  lots  o'  little  places  dat,  of  cose,  she  couldn't  go ; 
An'  she  had  to  gin  up  dancin'  an'  huh  singin'  an'  huh  play, — 
Now  hit's  nachul  dat  sich  goin's-on  'u'd  drive  a  man  away. 

So,  w'en  Lucy  got  so  solemn,  Ike  he  sta'ted  fu'  to  go 

Wid  a  gal  who  was  a  sinnah  an'  could  mek  a  bettah  show. 

Lucy  jes'  went  on  to  meetin'  lak  she  didn't  keer  a  rap, 

But  my  'sperunce  kep'  me  t'inkin'  dah  was  somep'n'  gwine  to  drap, 

Fu'  a  gal  won't  let  'uligion  er  no  othah  so't  o'  t'ing 
Stop  huh  w'en  she  teks  a  notion  dat  she  wants  a  weddin'  ring. 
You  kin  p'omise  huh  de  blessin's  of  a  happy  aftah  life 
(An  hit's  nice  to  be  a  angel),  but  she'd  ravah  be  a  wife. 

So  w'en  Chrismus  come  an'  mastah  gin  a  frolic  on  de  lawn, 
Didn't  'sprise  me  not  de  littlest  seein'  Lucy  lookin'  on. 
An'  I  seed  a  wa'nin'  lightnin'  go  a-flashin'  f'om  huh  eye 
Jest  ez  'Lishy  an'  his  new  gal  went  a-gallivantin'  by. 

An'  dat  Tildy,  umph !  she  giggled,  an'  she  gin  huh  dress  a  flirt, 
Lak  de  people  she  was  passin'  was  ez  common  ez  de  dirt ; 
An'  de  minit  she  was  dancin',  w'y  dat  gal  put  on  mo'  aihs 
Dan  a  cat  a-tekin'  kittens  up  a  paih  o'  windin'  staihs. 

She  could  'fo'd  to  show  huh  sma'tness,  fu'  she  couldn't  he'p  but  know 
Dat  wid  jes'  de  present  dancahs  she  was  ownah  of  de  flo' ; 
But  I  t'ink  she's  kin'  o'  cooled  down  ef-  she  happened  on  de  sly 
Fu'  to  noticed  dat  'ere  lightnin'  dat  I  seed  in  Lucy's  eye. 

An'  she  wouldn't  been  so  'stonished  w'en  de  people  gin  a  shout, 
An'  Lucy  th'owed  huh  mantle  back  an'  come  a-glidin'  out. 
Some  ahms  was  dah  to  tek  huh  an'  she  fluttahed  down  de  flo' 
Lak  a  feddah  f'om  a  bedtick  w'en  de  win'  commence  to  blow. 


136  WERNER'S    READINGS 

Soon  ez  Tildy  see  de  trouble,  she  jes'  tu'n  an'  toss  huh  haid, 
But  seem  lak  she  los'  huh  sperrit,  all  huh  darin'ness  was  daid. 
Didn't  cut  anothah  capah  nary  time  de  blessid  night ; 
But  de  othah  one,  hit  looked  lak  couldn't  git  enough  delight. 

Wen  you  keeps  a  colt  a-stan'nin'  in  de  stable  all  along, 
Wen  he  do  git  out  hit's  nachul  he'll  be  pullin'  mighty  strong. 
Ef  you  will  tie  up  yo'  feelin's,  hyeah's  de  bes'  advice  to  tek, 
Look  out  fu'  an  awful  loosin'  w'en  de  string  dat  hoi's  'em  brek. 

• 
Lucy's  mammy  groaned  to  see  huh,  an'  huh  pappy  st'omed  an'  to', 
But  she  kep'  right  on  a-hol'in'  to  de  centah  of  de  flo'. 
So  dey  went  an'  ast  de  pastoh  ef  he  couldn't  mek  huh  quit, 
But  de  tellin'  of  de  sto'y  th'owed  de  preachah  in  a  fit. 

Tildy  Taylor  chewed  huh  hank'cher  twell  she'd  chewed  it  in  a  hole, — 
All  de  sinnahs  was  rejoicin'  'cause  a  lamb  had  lef  de  fol', 
An'  de  las'  I  seed  o'  Lucy,  she  an  'Lish  was  side  an'  side ; 
I  don't  blame  de  gal  fu'  dancin',  an'  I  couldn't  ef  I  tried. 

Fu'  de  men  dat  wants  to  ma'y  ain't  a-growin'  'roun'  on  trees, 
An'  de  gal  dat  wants  to  git  one  sholy  has  to  try  to  please, 
Hit's  a  ha'd  t'ing  fu'  a  ooman  fu'  to  pray  an'  jes'  set  down,  • 
An'  to  sacafice  a  husban'  so's  to  try  to  gain  a  crown. 

Now,  I  don'  say  she  was  justified  in  follerin'  huh  plan; 
But  aldough  she  los'  huh  'ligion,  yit  she  sholy  got  de  man. 
Latah  on,  w'en  she  is  suttain  dat  de  preachah's  made  'em  fas' 
She  kin  jes'  go  back  to  chu'ch  an'  ax  fu'giveness  fu'  de  pas'! 


How  Girls  Fish* 

THERE  are  generally  about  six  of  them  in  a  bunch,  with  light 
dresses  on,  and  they  have  three  poles,  with  as  many  hooks  and 
lines  among  them.  As  soon  as  they  get  to  the  river  they  look  for  a 
good,  place  to  get  down  the  bank,  and  the  most  venturesome  one 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  13? 

sticks  her  boot  heels  in  the  bank  and  makes  two  careful  steps  down — ■ 
then  finds  herself  at  the  bottom,  with  both  arms  in  the  water,  and 
a  general  feeling  that  everybody  in  the  wide  world  is  looking  at  her, 
/  and  she  never  tells  anybody  how  she  got  there.  The  other  girls, 
profiting  by  her  example,  turn  around  and  go  down  the  bank  on 
their  hands  and  toes,  backward,  then  they  scamper  over  the  rifts 
'  until  they  find  a  shallow  place,  where  they  can  see  the  fish,  and  shout : 

"  Oh,  I  see  one!  " 

"Where?" 

"  Why,  there." 

"  Let's  catch  him." 

"  Who's  got  the  bait  ?  " 

"  You  lazy  thing,  you're  sitting  on  my  pole !  " 

All  these  exclamations  are  gotten  off  in  a  tone  that  awakens 
every  echo  within  a  mile  around,  and  sends  every  fish  that  hears 
them  into  "  gal-loping  hysterics."  Then  the  girls,  by  superhuman 
exertions,  manage  to  get  a  worm  on  the  hook  and  throw  it  into  the 
water  with  a  splash  like  the  launching  of  a  washtub,  and  await  the 
result.  After  a  while  'a  feeble-minded  sunfish  contrives  to  get  fast- 
ened on  the  hook  of  a  timid  girl  and  she  gives  vent  to  her  tongue : 

"  Oh,  my !  something's  got  my  hook !  " 

"  Pull  up !  pull  up !  you  little  idiot !  "  shout  five  excited  voices, 
as  poles  and  hooks  are  dropped,  and  they  run  to  the  rescue.  The 
girl  with  a  bite  gives  a  spasmodic  jerk  which  sends  the  unfortunate 
"  sunny  "  into  the  air  the  full  length  of  the  four-reel  line,  and  he 
comes  down  on  the  nearest  curly  head  with  a  damp  flop  that  sets 
her  clawing  as  though  there  were  bumble-bees  in  her  hair. 

1'  Oh,  murder !  Take  it  away !  ugh !  Take  it  away !  the  nasty 
thing !  "  Then  they  hold  up  their  skirts  and  gather  about  that  fish 
as  he  skips  over  the  logs,  one  all  the  time  holding  the  pole  in  both 
hands,  with  one  foot  firmly  planted  on  the  line,  as  though  she  had 
an  evil  disposed  goat  at  the  other  end. 

Then  they  talk  it  over. 

"  How  will  it  ever  get  off  ?  " 

"  Ain't  it  pretty  ?  " 

"  Wonder  if  it  ain't  dry  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  thing;  let's  put  it  back." 


138  WERNER'S    READINGS 

"  How  will  we  get  the  hook  from  its  mouth  ?  " 

"  Pick  it  up !  Pick  it  up !  "  says  one  of  the  girls,  as  she  backed 
herself  out  of  the  circle. 

"  Good  gracious !  I'm  afraid !  There !  it's  opening  its  mouth 
at  me." 

Just  then  "  sunny  "  wriggles  off  the  hook  and  disappears  be- 
tween two  logs  in  the  water  and  the  girls  try  for  another  bite.  But 
the  sun  comes  down  and  fries  the  backs  of  their  necks,  and  they  get 
three  headaches  in  the  party  and  they  all  get  cross  and  scold  at  the 
fish  like  so  many  magpies. 

Finally,  they  get  mad  all  over  and  throw  the  poles  away,  hunt 
up  the  lunch  baskets,  climb  up  into  the  woods,  where  they  sit  around 
on  the  grassland  eat  enough  dried  beef,  and  rusk,  and  hard  boiled 
eggs  to  give  a  wood-horse  the  nightmare,  after  which  they  compare 
notes  about  beaux  until  sundown,  when  they  go  home  and  plant 
envy  in  the  hearts  of  all  their  dear  friends  by  telling  them  what  a 
splendid  time  they  had  out  fishing. 


Grandmamma's   Fan* 

By  EDITH  S.   TUPPE% 
[The  minuet  may  be  danced  at  the  end  of  each  stanza.] 

IVORY  sticks  and  painted  face, 
Bits  of  yellow,  tattered  lace, 
Tiny  mirror  set  in  place, 
•     Beauty  sadly  marred  by  age, 
But  a  treasure  I'll  engage 
When  the  minuet  was  the  rage. 

Fancy  I  can  see  her  now: — 
Powdered  locks  above  her  brow, 
Sweeping  courtesy,  mincing  bow, 
Such  a  dainty,  graceful  maid — 
One  hand  holds  her  stiff  brocade, 
Other  wields  the  coquette's  aid. 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    2b.  139 

O'er  her  little  head  well  curled 
Spreads  the  silken  toy  unfurled. 
Now  it's  shut — anon  it's  twirled 
To  conceal  a  stolen  glance, 
Or  a  crimson  blush  perchance, 
As  she  treads  the  stately  dance. 

Ghostly,  fleeting  vision  fair, 
Flashing  eyes  and  powdered  hair, 
Marble  shoulders  glancing  bare — 
Time  rolls  backward  for  a  space, 
O'er  this  faded  silk  and  lace, 
Gleams  the  witch'ry  of  thy  face. 


Tobes  Monument 

By  ELIZABETH  KILHAM. 

THE  "  seven-days'  fight "  was  ended.  Hundreds  of  our  brave 
boys  lay  with  white,  still  faces  upturned  to  the  sky  on  the 
slopes  of  Malvern  Hill,  or  moaned  away  their  lives  in  the  marshes 
along  the  Chickahominy.  The  worn,  battered  remnants  of  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Potomac  were  encamped  at  Harrison's  Landing,  on  the 
James,  waiting  for  transports  to  take  them  back  to  Washington. 

It  was  "  after  taps,"  a  sultry,  Southern  summer  night.  On  the 
extreme  edge  of  the  encampment,  on  the  side  nearest  the  enemy, 
a  sentinel  paused  in  his  walk,  and  peered  cautiously  out  into  the 
darkness.  "  Pshaw!  "  he  said;  "  it's  nothing  but  a  dog."  He  was 
resuming  his  walk,  when  the  supposed  quadruped  rose  suddenly, 
and  walked  along  two  feet,  in  a  manner  so  unmistakably  human,  that 
the  sentinel  lowered  his  musket  once  more,  and  shouted,  "  Halt ! 
Advance,  and  give  the  countersign !  "  A  faint,  childish  voice  said; 
"  Ain't  got  none,  massa." 

"  Well,  there,  now !  "  said  the  sentinel,  "  if  it  ain't  just  a  little 


140  WERNER'S    READINGS 

darky,  and  I  guess  I've  frightened  him  half  to  death.    Come  here, 
Snowball." 

The  child  crept  up,  and  said  tremblingly,  "  'Deed,  massa,  I  ain't 
got  nuffin  ter  gib  yer." 

"  Well,  who  asked  you  to  give  me  anything?  " 

"Yer  done  ax  me  fer  gib  yer  suffin  jes'  now;  and  I  ain't  got 
nuffin  'cep'  my  close  what  I  got  on." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  fret ;  I  don't  want  'em. — Corporal  of  the 
guard !    Post  two." 

The  corporal  hastened  to  "  post  two,"  and  found  the  sentinel 
with  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  a  little  black  boy,  who,  between 
fear,  fatigue,  and  hunger,  was  unable  to  give  any  account  of  himself. 
"  I'll  take  him  to  Capt.  Leigh,"  the  corporal  said ;  "  he's  officer  of 
the  day.    Maybe  he'll  be  able  to  get  something  out  of  him." 

The  captain  stood  in  front  of  his  tent,  looking  out  into  the  night 
when  the  corporal  and  his  charge  approached. 

"  Captain,"  said  he,  "  here's  a  boy  just  come  into  the  lines." 

"  Very  well,  you  can  leave  him  here." 

At  the  first  sound  of  the  captain's  voice,  the  boy  drew  nearer 
to  him,  as  knowing  instinctively  that  he  had  found  a  friend. 

"  You  can  go  into  that  tent  and  sleep  till  morning,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  was  Cant.  Leigh's  first  question  the  next 
morning. 

"  Name  Tobe." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Dat's  all,  Massa  Cap'n." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  Massa  Cap'n.    Nobody  nebber  done  tole  me  dat  ar." 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Come  fum  de  back  o'  Richmon',  Mass  Cap'n." 

"  What  did  you  come  here  for  ?  " 
'/"All  de  res'  ob  'm  runned  away;  an'  ole  mass  he  wor  so  mad, 
I  wor  jes'  feared  o'  my  life.     'Sides,  I  t'ought  I  mought  fin'  my 
mammy  ef  I  got  'mong  der  Unions." 

"  Where  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  Mass  Cap'n.    Ole  mass  done  sol'  her  down  in  Georgy 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  141 

las'   corn-shuckin',  an'  I  ain't  nebber  heerd  ob  her  sence.     But  I 
t'ought  mebby  she  mought  ha'  runned  'way,  too,  an'  I'd  fin'  her  wid 
der  Unions." 
\    "  Well,  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Dunno,  Mass  Cap'n.    I'd  like  ter  stay  'long  wid  you." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  Kin  wait  on  yer,  Mass  Cap'n ;  kin  shme  up  boots ;  an'  " — 
brightening  up  as  his  eyes,  wandering  round,  caught  sight  of  the 
horses — "  kin  clean  de  hosses  right  smart." 

"  You  are  not  big  enough  to  take  care  of  a  horse." 

"  'Deed  I  is,  Mass  Cap'n;  an'  I  ain't  'fraid  o'  no  hoss.  Ole  mass 
alius  sent  me  ter  tend  ter  de  hosses  dat  nobody  else  couldn't  manage. 
Dey  alius  lets  me  handle  'em  ef  dey's  ebber  so  debblesome.  Jes'  yer 
try  me,  Mass  Cap'n,  an'  see  ef  I  telled  yer  de  troof."* 

"  If  I  keep  you  with  me  you  must  be  a  good  boy,  and  do  as  I 
tell  you." 

"  'Deed  I  will,  Mass  Cap'n.  I'se  do  ebery  work  yer  say,  sho's 
yer  born." 

So  when  the  troops  left  Harrison's  Landing,  Tobe  went  too,  in 
charge  of  the  captain's  horse  and  baggage ;  and,  when  the  steamer 
was  fairly  under  way,  he  brightened  into  a  new  creature  as  every 
revolution  of  the  wheel  placed  a  greater  distance  between  himself 
and  "  ole  massa." 

It  proved  that  Tobe  had  told  the  truth  about  his  skill  in  taking 
care  of  horses.  Capt.  Leigh's  horse  had  never  looked  so  well  as 
now,  and  the  captain  was  delighted.  Tobe  turned  out,  moreover, 
to  be  a  very  good  boy.  But  the  army  is  not  the  best  place  for  boys. 
So  one  day  Capt.  Leigh  said, — 

"  Tobe,  how  would  you  like  to  go  North  ?  " 

"Whar's  it  at,  Mass  Cap'n?" 

"  I  mean  my  home  at  the  North." 

"  When  is  yer  gwine,  Mass  Cap'n  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  at  all  now." 

"  Does  yer  mean  ter  sen'  me  away  from  yer,  Mass  Cap'n  ?  " 

Capt.  Leigh  was  touched,  and  answered  him  very  gently, — 

"  Yes ;  I  want  to  send  you  away  from  me  now,  because  it  will  be 


L42  WERNER'S    READINGS 

better  for  you.     But,  when  the  war  is  over,  I  shall  go  home;  and 
then  you  can  stay  with  me  always,  if  you  are  a  good  boy." 

"  I  alius  does  jes'  de  t'ings  yer  tell  me,  Mass  Cap'n." 
U*""  I  know  you  do.  And,  just  because  you  do  what  I  tell  you  so 
well,  I  want  to  send  you  to  my  home,  to  run  errands  for  my  wife, 
and  do  what  work  she  will  give  you  in  the  house.  And  I  have  three 
little  children, — two  little  girls  and  a  baby  boy.  I  want  you  to  go 
with  them  when  they  go  out  to  play,  and  take  care  of  them.  My 
home  is  in  a  very  pleasant  place,  in  the  country.  Don't  you  think 
you  would  like  to  go  there  ?  " 

"  Ef  yer  goes  too,  Mass  Cap'n." 

"  But,  my  boy,  I  can't  possibly  go  now." 

"  I'se  do  jes'  de  t'ing  yer  say,  Mass  Cap'n.  Ef  yer  tells  me  to 
go,  I'se  go.  An'  I'se  jest  do  ebery  word  the  missus  say,  an'  I  look 
af'r  de  chillens  de  bes'  I  knows,  ontel  yer  comes  dar.  Only  please 
come  right  soon,  Mass  Cap'n."  And,  as  the  captain  left  the  tent, 
Tobe  cried  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

Capt.  Leigh  found  a  brother  officer  who  was  expecting  to  go 
home  on  a  furlough,  and  who  readily  agreed  to  take  charge  of  the 
boy  in  whom  his  friend  was  so  deeply  interested. 

But  that  night  came  an  order  for  Capt.  Leigh's  regiment  to  march 
at  daylight. 

"  Tobe,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  can  go  in  one  of  the  baggage- 
wagons.  Strap  up  my  blanket. and  poncho,  and  take  them  along; 
and  these  boots,  take  particular  care  of  them,  for  it's  not  often  I 
can  get  a  pair  of  cavalry  boots  to  fit  as  they  do." 

"  Yer  needn't  be  feared,  Mass  Cap'n ;  I'se  take  care  of  'em  de  bes' 
I  knows." 

The  main  body  of  the  raiders  were  reported  on  the  line  of  the 
South  Mountains,  making  for  Gettysburg.  Scouting  expeditions 
were  sent  out  from  the  Northern  army  in  all  directions ;  and  a  body 
of  troops,  including  Capt.  Leigh's  regiment,  was -ordered  to  pro- 
ceed by  the  shortest  route  to  Gettysburg,  and  head  the  rebels  off. 
One  of  the  baggage- wagons  broke  down.  The  driver  of  another 
wagon  stopped  to  help  his  comrade.  The  troops  passed  on,  and  the 
two  wagons  were  left  alone  on  the  mountain.  In  one  of  them  was 
Tobe,  with  the  captain's  boots,  over  which  he  kept  constant  watch. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  143 

The  men  worked  busily  at  the  wagon,  and  Tobe  sat  watching  them. 
Suddenly  a  trampling  of  horses'  feet  was  heard,  and  a  party  of  cav- 
alry came  round  a  turn  in  the  road. 

"  That's  good,"  said  one  of  the  men ;  "  there's  some  of  the  boys. 
If  they'll  wait  a  few  minutes,  we  can  go  along  with  'em." 

"  'Tain't  none  of  our  boys,"  said  the  other,  after  a  keen  glance ; 
"  them's  rebs." 

At  the  word,  Tobe  slid  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon  under 
some  blankets,  and  lay  silent  and  motionless  with  the  boots  clasped 
in  his  arms. 

As  the  soldiers  advanced,  the  officer  said,  apparently  in  reply  to 
a  question,  "  No,  let  the  men  go ;  we  can't  do  anything  with  pris- 
oners here.  But  we'll  look  through  the  wagon,  and,  if  the  Yanks 
have  anything  we  want,  '  all's  fair  in  war.'  " 

They  reined  their  horses  by  the  wagon,  and,  after  a  few  short, 
sharp  questions,  proceeded  to  break  open  trunks  and  bags  and  ap- 
propriate their  contents. 

The  soldiers  were  about  finishing  their  examination,  when  one 
of  them  said,  "  What's  that  under  the  seat  of  that  wagon?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  but  a  torn  blanket,"  said  another.  "  'Tain't  worth 
taking.    We  have  got  all  we  want." 

"  There  may  be  something  under  it,  though." 
/  He  pushed  aside  the  blanket  with  his  saber,  and  there  lay  Tobe, 
endeavoring  but  unsuccessfully  to  hide  the  boots  under  him. 

"  Ah!  "  said  the  officer,  "  this  is  worth  while.  Here's  just  what 
I  wanted.    Come,  boy,  hand  over  those  boots,  quick." 

"  'Deed,  massa,"  said  Tobe,  "  I  can't  gib  'em  ter  yer.  Dey  'longs 
ter  Mass  Cap'n,  an'  he  tole  me  take  keer  ob  'em  mos'  partic'lar." 

"  Can't  help  that.    I've  got  to  have  them ;  so  pass  them  along." 

"  Please,  massa,"  began  Tobe ;  but  the  rebel  cut  him  short. 

"  Will  you  give  me  those  boots  ?  If  you  don't  do  it,  and  in  double- 
quick  time,  too,  I'll  put  a  ball  through  your  black  skin.  I  won't 
ask  you  again.  Now,  will  you  give  them  up  ?  "  and  he  pulled  out 
his  pistol. 

"  'Deed,  massa,  I  can't,  case  Massa  Cap'n — " 

There  was  a  sharp  click,  a  flash,  a  long,  sobbing  moan,  and  Tobe 


' 


144  WERNER'S   READINGS 

lay  motionless,  the  boots  still  clasped  in  his  arms,  and  great  drops 
of  blood  slowly  gathering  upon  them. 

"  Enemy  in  sight !  "  shouted  a  picket,  riding  up. 

The  officer  hastily  gave  an  order ;  and  the  rebels  dashed  off  at 
a  furious  speed  a  few  moments  before  a  party  of  Union  cavalry, 
with  Capt.  Leigh  at  their  head,  appeared,  riding  from  the  opposite 
direction. 

A  few  words  sufficed  for  explanation.  Capt  Leigh  laid  his  hand 
on  Tobe's  shoulder,  and  spoke  his  name.  At  the  sound  of  the  voice 
he  loved  so  well,  his  eyes  opened,  and  he  said  faintly,  "  Mass  Cap'n, 
I  done  de  bes'  I  knowed.    I  kep  the  boots." 

"  O  Tobe !  "  groaned  the  captain,  "  I  wish  you  had  given  them 
up.     I  would  have  lost  everything,  rather  than  have  had  this." 

"  Mass  Cap'n." 

"  Yes,  Tobe,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  De  little  chillens,  Mass  Cap'n ;  I  meaned  ter  wait  on  'em  right 
smart.    Tell  'em  " —  His  voice  grew  fainter,  and  his  eyes  closed. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  what  shall  I  tell  them  ?  " 

"  Tell  'em  I  didn't  lose  de  boots ;  I  kep  'em  de  bes' — I  knowed." 
%--There  was  a  faint  sigh,  a  flutter  of  the  eyelids,  and  the  little  life 
was  ended. 

Very  reverently  Capt.  Leigh  lifted  the  boots,  all  wet  and  stained 
with  blood.  "  I  will  never  wear  those  boots  again,"  he  said ;  "  but 
I  will  never  part  with  them.     They  shall  be  Tobe's  monument." 

In  the  hall  of  Capt.  Leigh's  house  is  a  deep  niche,  and  in  it,  on 
a  marble  slab  covered  with  a  glass  case,  stands  a  pair  of  cavalry 
boots  with  dark  stains  upon  them,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  slab,  in 
golden  letters,  is  the  inscription, — 

"  In  memory  of  Tobe, 
Faithful  unto  death." 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26  145 

How  'Persimmons  Took   Cah  oh  der 


Baby< 


PERSIMMONS  was  a  colored  lad 
'Way  down  in  Lou'sianny ; 
And  all  the  teaching  that  he  had 
Was  given  him  by  his  granny. 

But  he  did  his  duty  ever, 

As  well  as  you,  it  may  be : 
With  faithfulness  and  pride  always, 

He  minded  missus'  baby. 
He  loved  the  counsels  of  the  saints, 

And,  sometimes,  those  of  sinners,— 
To  run  off  'possum-hunting,  and 

Steal  "  water-milion  "  dinners. 
And  fervently  at  meetin',  too, 

On.  every  Sunday  night, 
He'd  with  the  elders  shout  and  pray 

By  the  pine-knots'  flaring  light, 
And  sing  their  rudest  melodies, 

With  voice  so  full  and  strong, 
You  could  almost  think  he  learned  then1 

From  the  angels'  triumph-song. 

SONG. 

"  We  be  nearer  to  de  Lord 

Dan  de  white  folks, — and  dey  knows  it 
See  de  glory-gate  unbarred  ! 
Walk  in,  darkies,  past  de  guard : 

Bet  you  dollar  he  won't  close  it ! 

"  Walk  in,  darkies,  troo  de  gate ; 

Hear  de  kullered  angels  holler ! 
Go  'way,  white  folks :  you're  too  late : 
We's  de  winnin'  kuller.    Wait, 

Till  de  trumpet  blow  to  follow." 


148  WERNER'S   READINGS 

He  would  croon  this  over  softly 
As  he  lay  out  in  the  sun ; 

But  the  song  he  heard  most  often, 
His  granny's  favorite  one, 

Was,  "  Jawge  Washington 
Thomas  Jefferson 
Persimmons  Henry  Clay,  be 
Quick  !  shut  de  do' ; 
Get  up  off  dat  flo' ; 
Come  heah  and  mind  de  baby." 

One  night  there  came  a  fearful  storm, 

Almost  a  second  flood : 
The  river  rose,  a  torrent  swoln 

Of  beaten,  yellow  mud. 
It  bit  at  its  embankments, 

And  lapped  them  down  in  foam, 
Till,  surging  through  a  wide  crevasse, 

The  waves  seethed  round  their  home. 
They  scaled  the  high  veranda ; 

They  filled  the  parlors  clear, 
Till  floating  chairs  and  tables 

Clashed  against  the  chandelier. 
'Twas  then  Persimmons's  granny, 

Stout  of  arm,  and  terror-proof, 
By  means  of  ax  and  lever, 

Pried  up  the  veranda  roof; 
Bound  mattresses  upon  it 

With  stoutest  cord  of  rope ; 
Lifted  out  her  fainting  mistress, 

Saying,  "  Honey,  dar  is  hope ! 
You,  Jawge  Washington 
Thomas  Jefferson 
Persimmons  Henry  Clay,  be        \i 
Quick  on  dat  raft! 
Don't  star'  like  a  calf, 
But  take  good  cab  ob  baby !  " 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  a47 

The  frothing  river  lifted  them 

Out  on  its  turbid  tide ; 
And  for  a  while  they  floated  on 

Together,  side  by  side ; 
Till,  broken  by  the  current  strong, 

The  frail  raft  snapped  in  two, 
And  Persimmons  saw  his  granny 

Fast  fading  from  his  view. 

The  deck-hands  on  a  steamboat 

Heard,  as  they  passed  in  haste, 
A  child's  voice  singing  in  the  dark, 

Upon  the  water's  waste, — 
A  song  of  faith  and  triumph, 

Of  Moses  and  the  Lord ; 
And,  throwing  out  a  coil  of  rope, 

They  drew  him  safe  on  board. 

Full  many  a  stranger  city 

Persimmons  wandered  through, 
"  A-totin  ob  der  baby,"  and 

Singing  songs  he  knew. 
At  length  some  City  Fathers 

Objected  to  his  plan, 
Arresting  as  a  vagrant 

Our  valiant  little  man. 
They  carried  out  their  purposes : 

Persimmons  "  'lowed  he'd  spile  'em :  " 
So,  sloping  from  the  station-house, 

He  stole  baby  from  the  'sylum. 

And  on  that  very  afternoon, 

As  it  was  growing  dark, 
He  sang,  beside  the  fountain,  in 

The  crowded  city  park, 
A  rude  camp-meeting  anthem, 

Which  he  had  sung  before, 
While  on  his  granny's  fragile  raft 

He  drifted  far  from  shore : — ' 


148  WERNER'S    READINGS 

SONG. 

"  Moses  smote  de  water,  and 

De  sea  gabe  away. 
De  chilleren  dey  passed  ober,  for 

De  sea  gabe  way. 
O  Lord!   /  feel  so  glad! 

It  am  ahvays  dark  fo'  day: 
So,  honey,  don't  yer  be  sad: 

De  sea'll  give  way. 

A  lady  dressed  in  mourning 
Turned  with  a  sudden  start, 

Gave  one  glance  at  the  baby, 
Then  caught  it  to  her  heart, 

While  a  substantial  shadow 
That  was  walking  by  her  side 

Seized  Persimmons  by  the  shoulder, 
And  while  she  shook  him,  cried, — 

"  You,  Jazvge  Washington 
Thomas  Jefferson 
Persimmons  Henry  Clay, 
Be  quick,  splain  yourself,  chile, 
Stop  dat  ar  fool  smile ! 
Whar  you  done  been  wid  baby?" 


The  Wonderful  Tar  Baby  Story* 

By  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS, 

"  1  v  IDN'T  the  fox  never  catch  the  rabbit,  Uncle  Remus?  "  asked 
JL_J  the  little  boy  the  next  evening. 
"  He  come  mighty  nigh  it,  honey,  sho's  you  bawn  brer  fox  did. 
One  day  after  brer  rabbit  fool  'im  widdat  calamus  root,  brer  fox 
went  ter  wuk  en  get  'im  some  tar,  en  mix  it  wid  some  turkentime, 
en  fix  up  a  contrapshun  wat  he  call  a  tar-baby,  en  he  tuck  dish  yer 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  14« 

tar-baby  en  he  sot  er  in  de  big  road,  en  den  he  lay  off  in  de  bushes 
fer  ter  see  wat  de  news  wuz  gwinter  be.  En  he  didn't  hat  ter  wait 
long,  nudder,  kaze  bimeby  here  come  brer  rabbit  pacin'  down  de 
road — lippity-clippity,  clippity-lippity  dez  ez  sassy  ez  a  jay-bird. 
Brer  fox,  he  lay  low.  Brer  rabbit  come  prancin'  long  twel  he  spy 
de  tar-baby,  en  den  he  fotch  up  on  his  behime  legs  like  he  wuz 
'stonishe.    De  tar-baby,  she  sot  dar,  she  did,  .en  brer  fox  he  lay  low. 

"  '  Mawnin' ! '  sez  brer  rabbit,  sezee ;  '  nice  wedder  dis  mawnin'/ 
sezee. 

"  Tar-baby  ain't  savin'  nuthin',  en  brer  fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  '  How  duz  yo'  sym'tuns  seem  ter  segashuate? '  sez  brer  rabbit, 
sezee. 

"  Brer  fox,  he  wink  his  eyes  slow,  en  lay  low,  en  de  tar-baby,  she 
ain't  sayin'  nuthin'. 

"  '  How  you  come  on  den?  'is  you  deaf?'  sez  brer  rabbit,  sezee. 
'  Kase  if  you  is,  I  can  holler  louder,'  sezee. 

"  Tar-baby  stay  still,  en  brer  fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  '  You  er  stuck  up,  dat's  w'at  you  is,'  says  brer  rabbit,  sezee, 
'  en  I'm  gwinter  kyore  you,   dat's  wa't  I'm  a  gwinter  do,'  sezee. 

"  Brer  fox,  he  sorter  chuckle  in  his  stummuck,  he  did,  but  tar- 
baby  ain't  sayin'  nothin'. 

' '  I'm  gwine  ter  larn  you  howter  talk  ter  'spectubble  fokes  ef 
hit's  de  las'  ack/  sez  brer  rabbit,  sezee.  '  Ef  you  don't  take  off  dat 
en  tell  me  howdy,  I'm  gwinter  bus'  you  wide  open/  sezee. 

"  Tar-baby  stay  still,  en  brer  fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  Brer  rabbit  keep  on  axin'  him,  en  de  tar-baby,  she  keep  on 
sayin'  nuthin',  twel  present'y  brer  rabbit  draw  back  wid  his  fis,  he 
did,  en  blip  he  tuck  er  side  er  de  head.  Right  dars  whar  he  broke 
his  merlasses  jug.  His  fis  stuck,  en  he  can't  pull  loose;  de  tar  hilt 
'im.    But  tar-baby,  she  stay  still,  en  brer  fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  '  Ef  you  den't  lemme  loose,  I'll  knock  you  again,'  sez  brer 
rabbit,  sezee,  en  wid  that  he  fotch  'er  a  wipe  wid  de  udder  han'  en 
dat  stuck.    Tar-baby,  she  ain't  sayin'  nuthin,  and  brer  fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  '  Tu'n  me  loose,  fo'  I  kick  de  natal  stuffin'  outen  you,'  sez 
brer  rabbit,  sezee,  but  de  tar-baby,  she  ain't  sayin'  nuthin';  she  des 
hilt  on,  en  den  brer  rabbit  loose  de  use  er  his  feet  in  de  same  way. 
Brer  fox,  he  lay  low.    Den»brer  rabbit  squall  out  dat  ef  de  tar-baby 


150  WERNER'S    READINGS 

don't  tu'n  'im  loose  he  butt  'er  cranksicled.  En  den  he  butted,  eh 
his  head  got  stuck.  Den  brer  fox,  he  sa'ntered  fort,  lookin'  des  ez 
innercent  ez  wunner  yo'  mammy's  mockin'-birds. 

"  '  Howdy,  brer  rabbit,'  sez  brer  fox,  sezee.  '  You  look  sorter 
stuck  up  dis  mawnin',  sezee,  en  den  he  rolled  on  de  groun,  en  laft 
twel  he  couldn't  laff  no  mo.  'I  speck  you'll  take  dinner  wid  me  dis 
time,  brer  rabbit.  I  done  laid  in  some  calamus  root,  en  I  ain't 
gwineter  take  no  skuses,'  sez  brer  fox,  sezee." 

Here  Uncle  Remus  paused,  and  drew  a  two-pound  yam  out  of 
the  ashes. 

"  Did  the  fox  eat  the  rabbit?  "  asked  the  little  boy  to  whom  the 
story  had  been  told. 

"  Dat's  all  de  fur  de  tale  goes,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  He  mout, 
en  den  agin  he  moutent.  Some  say  jedge  b'ar  come  'long  en  den 
loosed  'im,  some  say  he  didn't.  I  hear  Miss  Sally  callin',  you  better 
run  'long/' 


M 


Mrs.  Middlerib's  Letter. 

R.  MIDDLERIB  paused  with  his  coffee-cup  raised  half  way 
to  his  lips,  as  his  wife  took  the  letter  from  the  servant.  She 
turned  it  over  once  or  twice,  gazed  earnestly  at  the  address,  and 
said: 

"  I  wonder  who  it  can  be  from?  I  can't  make  out  the  postmark. 
It  isn't  Perryville ;  it  looks  something  like  Tonawanda,  but  I  don't 
know  anybody  in  Tonawanda.  I  wonder  if  it  isn't  intended  for 
York?  Cousin  Hiley  Ann  Jackson  used  to  visit  in  York.  Why 
don't  they  make  the  postmarks  plainer,  I  wonder?  I  believe  it's 
Indianapolis,  after  all.  Then  it's  from  Eleanor  McPherson,  whose 
husband  you  met  last  summer  in  Canada.  It  isn't  Indianapolis,  it's 
Lacon ;  that's  where  Silas  Marshall  lives.  That  isn't  an  L,  either. 
No,  it's  New  Philadelphia,  111. ;  I  can  make  it  out  now ;  don't  you 
remember !  Uncle  Abner  Beasix  went  out  there  in  the  grindstone 
business.  I  wonder  if  anything  has — oh,  pshaw !  it  isn't  New  Phila- 
delphia, either,  it's- — what  is  it  ?     It's  R ;  R-o-m— oh,  now  I  see, 


AND    RECITATIONS  No.    26.  151 

R-o-m-e,  Rome.  Why  it  must  be  from — oh  dear  me,  it  isn't  Rome, 
either.     I  can't  make  it  out  at  all." 

And  she  turned  it  over  and  looked  mournfully  at  the  receiving 
stamp  on  the  back. 

"  Let  me  look  at  it,"  said  Mr.  Middlerib,  who  was  beginning 
to  fidget  with  impatience. 

"  No,"  replied  his  wife,  turning  back  to  the  postmark  once 
more.  "  I  can  see  what  it  is  now.  It's  Spartansburg,  Ky.  Sarah 
Blanchard  went  there  after  she  married.  I  expect'  she  wants  to — 
it  isn't  Spartansburg,  either,  it's  Gridley ;  that's  where  cousin 
Jennie  Buskirk  lives;  her  husband  went  there  and  bougliLa  grist 
mill.  I  wonder  if  she's  coming  out  this  summer?  I  hope  if  she 
does  she  won't  bring  the  children.  But  it  isn't  from  her,  either.  I 
ihink  that  it  is  Mount  Pleasant.  Oh !  It's  from  Aunt  Harriet  Mur- 
dock,  and  I  know  they've  all  been  killed,  and  that  dreadful  cyclone ! 
I  can't  open  the  letter,  my  hand  trembles  so.  Do  you  know,  the 
last  thing  I  said  to  her  when  she  moved  out  West,  I  said — it  isn't 
Mount  Pleasant,  either,  there  are  only  five  letters  in  it.  I  can't 
make  anything  out  of  it.  It  is  so  tantalizing  to  receive  a  letter  and 
then  not  be  able  to  tell  who  or  where  it  is  from." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  opening  a  letter  to  ascertain  those  facts  ?  " 
asked  her  husband. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  speechless  disdain 
upon  her  features,  and  half  whispered,  "  If  that  isn't  like  a  man,"  as 
though  anyj  woman  ever  looked  into  a  letter  until  she  had  guessed 
all  around  her  circle  of  relatives  and  friends  and  clear  through  the 
United  States  postal  guide,  to  decide  whence  and  from  whom  it 
came. 

This  particular  postmark,  however,  was  too  "  blind  "  for  the 
most  ingenious  expert  to  decipher,  and  at  last,  with  a  deep  sigh 
and  a  little  gesture  of  despair,  Mrs.  Middlerib  yielded  to  the  in- 
evitable, and  resignedly  opened  the  letter,  pausing  once  or  twice  in 
the  act,  however,  to  look  longingly  back  at  the  tantalizing  post- 
mark. 

"  At  last,"  groaned  her  husband,  who  by  this  time  was  burning 
up  with  curiosity. 

But  she  laid  aside  the  envelope  and  looked  at  it  a  little  while 


152  WERNER'S   READINGS 

before  she  turned  to  the  unfolded  letter  in  her  hand.  Her  husband, 
by  a  desperate  effort,  controlled  his  rising  wrath,  and,  in  a  voice 
hoarse  and  strained,  besought  her  to  read  the  letter,  as  it  was  late 
and  he  should  have  been  down  town  half  an  hour  ago. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  opened  the  letter,  turned  the  first  page 
to  look  for  the  end  of  it,  went  back  to  the  first  page,  settled  herself 
in  an  easy  position,  and  said : 

"Well,  I 'will  declare!" 

Then  she  read  on  in  silence,  and  Mr.  Middlerib  ground  his 
teeth.    Presently  she  said : 

"  H'm." 

She  read  three  or  four  lines  more  with  eager  eyes  and  noiseless 
lips,  and  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  " 

Then  she  resumed  her  voiceless  perusal  of  the  document,  and 
a  moment  later  astonished  her  husband  by  looking  up  at  him  and 
asking : 

"  I  wonder  if  that  is  so  ?  " 

Mr.  Middlerib  replied  in  mocking  tones  that  it  must  be  or  the 
postmark  wouldn't  have  said  so,  but  her  eyes  were  glued  to  the  page 
once  more,  and  she  made  no  response. 

"Oh!"  she  fairly  shrieked,  "did  you  ever?" 

The  writhing  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  said  he  never 
had,  but  he  would  if  this  intellectual  entertainment  lasted  much 
longer^ 

"  It's  too  bad,"  murmured  Mrs.  Middlerib,  turning  a  page  of 
the  letter  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  what's  too  bad  ?  "  he  broke  out,  wrathfully.  "  Who  is 
the  letter  from  and  what  is  it  all  about  ?  Either  read  aloud  or  make 
your  comments  as  mentally  as  you  read." 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  go,"  she  said,  in  firm,  decided  tones. 

"Oh,  have  you?"  he  interjected,  with  mild  sarcasm,  "shall  I 
go  pack  your  trunks  while  you  finish  that  letter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  they  can  do  it,"  she  said,  after  an  interval  of 
silence. 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  the  postmark,  then?"  he  growled, 
"  maybe  that  would  tell  you."- 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  153 

She  read  on,  silent  and  unimpressed,  for  two  or  three  lines 
further,  and  then  with  an  exclamation  of  astonishment,  said : 

"  How  very  low  !  "' 

"  Ah,  well,"  her  husband  snarled,  "  I'm  glad  to  learn  something 
about  that  letter  at  last.  It's  about  your  Uncle  Marcus's  family, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

She  did  not  hear  nor  heed.  She  glued  her  eyes  to  that  precious 
letter,  and  went  on  ejaculating  at  irregular  intervals: 

"  H'm." 

"  Oh,  that  must  be  lovely  !  " 

"  It  can't  be  the  same." 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Oh,  my  goodness  !  " 

Until  her  husband  was  fairly  frantic  with  curiosity.  Finally  she 
concluded  the  perusal  of  the  important  document,  sighed,  and  with 
profound  and  exasperating  deliberation  folded  it  carefully  and  re- 
placed it  in  the  envelope. 

Mr.  Middlerib  looked  at  her  in  blank  amazement. 

"  Well,  by  George !  "  he  said,  "  you  are  a  cool  one.  Here  I've 
waited  full  fifteen  minutes  to  learn  what  that  blessed  letter  is  about, 
and  all  I  know  about  it  is  that  you  couldn't  make  out  the  postmark. 
By  George,  woman — " 

"  Why,  whatever  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  with 
feigned  surprise.  "  Here  it  is,  if  you  want  to  see  it.  I  didn't  sup- 
pose you  cared  to  hear  it." 

"  Didn't  want  to  hear  it  ?  "  he  shouted.  "  What  do  you  suppose 
I  waited  here  and  missed  my  train  for,  if  I  didn't  want  to  hear  that 
blessed  letter?  " 

"  Why,  it  isn't  a  letter  at  all,"  she  said,  in  the  tone  of  a  superior 
being  commiserating  measureless  and  inexcusable  ignorance ;  "  it 
is  a  circular  from  Wachenheimer's  about  their  millinery  opening 
next  Thursday — " 

The  bang  of  the  street  door  cut  off  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

"  And  what  had  occurred  to  vex  him,"  she  said  to  her  neighbor, 
who  dropped  in  during  the  morning,  "  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
imagine.  Everything  about  the  house  had  gone  on  smoothly,  and 
I  can't  recall  a  single  irritating  incident  or  circumstance." 


154  WERNER'S    READINGS 

The  benediction. 

By  FRANCOIS  COPPEE, 

IT  was  in  eighteen  hundred — yes — and  nine, 
That  we  took  Saragossa.    What  a  day 
Of  untold  horrors !   I  was  sergeant  then. 
The  city  carried,  we  laid  siege  to  houses, 
All  shut  up  close,  and  with  a  treacherous  look 
Raining  down  shots  upon  us  from  the  windows. 
"  'Tis  the  priests'  doing !  "  was  the  word  passed  round ; 
So  that,  although  since  daybreak  under  arms, — 
Our  eyes  with  powder  smarting,  and  our  mouths 
Bitter  with  kissing  cartridge-ends, — piff,  paff ! 
Rattled  the  musketry  with  ready  aim, 
If  shovel-hat  and  long  black  cloak  were  seen 
Flying  in  the  distance.    Up  a  narrow  street 
My  company  worked  on.    I  kept  an  eye 
On  every  house-top  right  and  left,  and  saw 
From  many  a  roof  flames  suddenly  burst  forth 
Coloring  the  sky,  as  from  the  chimney-tops 
Among  the  forges.     Low  our  fellows  stooped, 
Entering  the  low-pitched  dens.     When  they  came  out, 
With  bayonets  dripping  red,  their  bloody  fingers 
Signed  crosses  on  the  wall ;  for  we  were  bound 
In  such  a  dangerous  defile  not  to  leave 
Foes  lurking  in  our  rear.    There  was  no  drum-beat, 
No  ordered  march.    Our  officers  looked  grave; 
The  rank  and  file  uneasy,  jogging  elbows 
As  do  recruits  when  flinching. 

All  at  once, 
Rounding  a  corner,  we  are  hailed  in  French 
With  cries  for  help.     At  double-quick  we  join 
Our  hard-pressed  comrades.    They  were  grenadiers, 
A  gallant  company,  but  beaten  back 
Ingloriously  from  the  raised  and  flag-paved  square 
Fronting  a  convent.     Twenty  stalwart  monks 
Defended  it — black  demons  with  shaved  crowns, 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  155 

The  cross  in  white  embroidered  on  their  frocks, 

Barefoot,  their  sleeves  tucked  up,  their  only  weapons 

Enormous  crucifixes,  so  well  brandished, 

Our  men  went  down  before  them.     By  platoons 

Firing,  we  swept  the  place ;  in  fact,  we  slaughtered 

This  terrible  group  of  heroes,  no  more  soul 

Being  in  us  than  in  executioners. 

The  foul  deed  done, — deliberately  done, — 
And  the  thick  smoke  rolling  away,  we  noted 
Under  the  huddled  masses  of  the  dead 
Rivulets  of  blood  run  trickling  down  the  steps ; 
While  in  the  background  solemnly  the  church 
Loomed  up,  its  doors  wide  open.     We  went  in. 
It  was  a  desert.    Lighted  tapers  starred 
The  inner  gloom  with  points  o£  gold.    The  incense 
Gave  out  its  perfume.    At  the  upper  end, 
Turned  to  the  altar  as  though  unconcerned 
In  the  fierce  battle  that  had  raged,  a  priest, 
White-haired  and  tall  of  stature,  to  a  close 
Was  bringing  tranquilly  the  mass.     So  stamped 
Upon  my  memory  is  that  thrilling  scene, 
That,  as  I  speak,  it  comes  before  me  now, — 
The  convent  built  in  old  time  by  the  Moors ; 
The  huge  brown  corpses  of  the  monks ;  the  sun 
Making  the  red  blood  on  the  pavement  steam  ; 
And  there,  framed  in  by  the  low  porch,  the  priest ; 
And  there  the  altar  brilliant  as  a  shrine ; 
And  here  ourselves,  all  halting,  hesitating, 
Almost  afraid. 

I,  certes,  in  those  days 
Wras  a  confirmed  blasphemer.     'Tis  on  record 
That  once,  by  way  of  sacrilegious  joke, 
A  chapel  being  sacked,  I  lit  my  pipe 
At  a  wax  candle  burning  on  the  altar. 
This  time,  however,  I  was  awed — so  blanched 
Was  that  old  man. 


156  WERNER'S    READINGS 

"  Shoot  him !  "  our  captain  cried. 
Not  a  soul  budged.    The  priest,  beyond  all  doubt, 
Heard ;  but  as  though  he  heard  not.     Turning  round, 
He  faced  us,  with  the  elevated  host, 
Having  that  period  of  the  service  reached 
When  on  the  faithful  benediction  falls. 
His  lifted  arms  seemed  as  the  spread  of  wings ; 
And  as  he  raised  the  pyx,  and  in  the  air 
With  it  described  the  cross,  each  nfon  of  us 
Fell  back,  aware  the  priest  no  more  was  trembling 
Than  if  before  him  the  devout  were  ranged. 
But  when,  intoned  with  clear  and  mellow  voice, 
The  words  came  to  us, 

"Vos  benedicat 
Deus  Omnipotens! " 

The  captain's  order 
Rang  out  again,  and  sharply,  "  Shoot  him  down, 
Or  I  shall  swear !  "    Then  one  of  ours,  a  dastard, 
Leveled  his  gun,  and  fired.     Upstanding  still, 
The  priest  changed  color,  though  with  steadfast  look 
Set  upward,  and  indomitably  stern.    . 
"Pater  et  Films! " 

Came  the  words.    What  frenzy, 
What  maddening  thirst  for  blood,  sent  from  our  ranks 
Another  shot,  I  know  not;  but  'twas  done. 

The  monk,  with  one  hand  on  the  altar's  ledge, 
Held  himself  up ;  and,  strenuous  to  complete 
His  benediction,  in  the  other  raised 
The  consecrated  host.     For  the  third  time 
Tracing  in  air  the  symbol  of  forgiveness, 
With  eyes  closed,  and  in  tones  exceeding  low, 
But  in  the  general  hush  distinctly  heard, 
"  Et  Sanctus  Spiritus!" 

He  said;  and,  ending 
His  servise,  fell  down  dead. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  157 

The  golden  pyx 
Rolled  bounding  on  the  floor.    Then,  as  we  stood, 
Even  the  old  troopers,  with  our  muskets  grounded, 
And  choking  horror  in  our  hearts,  at  sight 
Of  such  a  shameless  murder,  and  a  sight 
Of  such  a  martyr,  with  a  chuckling  laugh, 
"Amen!" 

Drawled  out  a  drummer-boy. 


The  Lost  Bride  (Ginevra). 

By  SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

IF  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
(Where  among  other  relics  you  may  see 
Tassoni's  bucket, — but  'tis  not  the  true  one,) 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Donati. 

Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  you ;  but,  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house — forget  it  not,  I  pray  you — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 

The  last  of  that  illustrious  family; 

Done  by  Zampieri, — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 

He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on 

Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 

That  he  may  call  it  up  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 

Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 

As  though  she  said,  "  Beware!  "    Her  vest  of  gold 

Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to  foot 


158  WERNER'S    READINGS 

An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, — 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart, — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody. 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  moldering  heirloom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  chest,  half -eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  life  of  Christ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestors, — 
That  by  the  way, — it  may  be  true  or  false, — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture ;  and  you  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child, — her  name  Ginevra, — 
The  joy,,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  father; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 

She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 

Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 

But  now  the  day  was  come, — the  day,  the  hour; 

Now,  frowning,  smiling  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum; 
And,  in  the  luster  of  her  youth  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  159 

Great  was  the  joy ;  but  at  the  nuptial  feast, 
When  all  sat  down,  the  bride  herself  was  wanting, 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found.    Her  father  cried, 
"  Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love !  " 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas !  she  was  not  to  be  found ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed 
But  that  she  was  not. 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Donati  lived,  and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, — 
Something  he  could  not  find, — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless, — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  passed,  and  all  forgotten, 

When,  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 

Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery, 

That  moldering  chest  was  noticed;  and  'twas  said 

By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 

"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking  place  ?  " 

'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  way 

It  burst, — it  fell, — and  lo  !  a  skeleton, 

With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone, 

A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 

All  else  had  perished,  save  a  wedding  ring, 

And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 

Engraven  with  a  name, — the  name  of  both, — 

"  Ginevra." 


160  WERNER'S    READINGS 

There,  then,  had  she  found  a  grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy, 
When  a  spring  lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever. 


44 1  Was  On  the  Merrimac/' 

I    WAS  on  the  Merrimac — "  "  No  more,"  the  listener  cried. 

1     "  The  best  is  none  too  good  for  you.    Come  on,  just  step  inside. 
Now  eat  your  fill  at  my  expense  and  name  your  brand  of  wine. 
For  heroes  such  as  you,  my  boy,  the  best  is  none  too  fine !  " 

"  I  was  on  the  Merrimac — "  "  I  know,"  the  listener  cried. 
"  You  rushed  into  that  seething  hell  and  death  itself  defied, 
And  now  from  Spanish  dungeons  you  in  some  heroic  style 
Have  slipped  away  and  fooled  them ;  I  can  see  it  in  your  smile ! " 

"  I  was  on  the  Merrimac — "     "  Yes,  yes,"  the  listener  said. 
"  The  laurel  wreath  is  waiting  to.  adorn  your  gallant  head, 
And  Fame  is  sitting  smiling,  just  as  happy  as  can  be, 
All  ready  now  to  hand  your  name  to  immortality." 

"  I  was  on  the  Merrimac — "    "  Aha !  "  the  listener  sighed. 
"  To  think  that  you  should  get  away  and  stem  the  roaring  tide ! 
To  think  that  I  should  see  the  day  I'd  grasp  a  hero's  hand, 
Especially  a  hero  such  as  formed  young  Hobson's  band !  " 

"  I  was  on  the  Merrimac !     No  interruptions,  please, 

Because  some  explanation  now  will  set  us  at  our  ease. 

I  was  on  the  Merrimac  a  day  or  two  before 

The  government  took  charge  of  her  down  there  in  Baltimore !  " 


AND    RECITATIONS  No.    26.  161 

The  Schoolboys'   Strike* 

By  %  J.  BURDETTE. 

AMONG  the  sunny  memories  of  my  own  school-days  there  glows, 
bright  and  soft  as  summer  sunset,  the  great  strike  at  Hinman's 
in  Peoria,  way  back  in  1853.  Hinman's  was  the  greatest  school  in 
the  West.  The  dear  old  man  was  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion, Board  of  Education,  school  trustee,  county  superintendent, 
principal,  assistant,  and  janitor.  He  had  a  pleasant  smile,  a  firm 
temper,  and  a  slate  frame.  He  also  carried  about  his  person  a 
grip  that  would  make  a  blacksmith's  vise  crawl  into  the  scrap 
heap  and  hide  itself.  We  used  to  have  general  exercises  on  Friday 
afternoons,  at  which  we  were  wont  to  recite  in  vociferous  concert  the 
multiplication  tables,  the  states  and  capitals,  and  such  thrilling 
rhetorical  exercises  as,  "Will  you  walk?  or  ride?"  and  "They 
tell  us  to  be  moderate,  but  they,  they — are  torevelin-pro-FU-sion." 
It  was  thrilling.  But  after  we  had  learned  all  these  chants  "  by 
heart,"  and  could  chant  them  off  with  our  eyes  shut  Hinman  in- 
troduced an  innovation — "  speakin'  pieces."  Upon  that  we  struck. 
We  endured  it  three  weeks,  and  then  we  determined  to  boycott  the 
whole  business.  All  the  boys  went  into  it.  Bill  Smith  and  Hub 
Tuttle,  Bob  Gregg,  Ed  Easton,  Steve  Bunn,  Bill  Rodecker,  Hen 
Keener,  and  all  the  big  boys,  too.  The  first  boy  called  on  to  "  speak  " 
was  to  announce  the  strike,  and  as  my  name  came  pretty  well  up  in 
the  alphabet,  I  stood  a  good  chance  of  being  the  leader,  a  distinction 
for  which  I  was  not  at  all  ambitious,  being  of  tender  years  and 
of  a  ruddy  countenance  and  sensitive  feelings.  But  a  boy  named 
Allen,  who  was  called  ahead  of  me,  flunked,  and  said  his  piece, 
"  Hohenlinden,"  although  we  made  such  suggestive  gestures  at 
him  that  he  forgot  half  of  it  and  broke  down  and  cried.  When 
I  was  called  I  refused  to  speak.  Being  pressed  for  a  reason,  I  said, 
in  faltering  accents',  that  "  there  wasn't  goin'  to  be  no  more  speakin'." 
When  the  old  man,  with  unfeigned  surprise,  asked  me  who  said  so, 
I  said  "  all  of  us  did."  Then  he  said  there  would  be  "  a  little  more 
speakin'  "  before  the  close  of  the  session,  and  so  he  led  me  out  upon 


162  WERNER'S    READINGS 

the  rostrum.  Then  and  there,  with  feelings  which  I  now  shudder 
to  recall,  I  did  my  first  song"  and  dance  act.  I  had  often  before 
performed  my  solitary  cachuca  to  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  "  Old 
Hinman's  "  slate  frame,  but  never  had  I  accompanied  myself  with 
words.  Boy  like,  I  had  selected  for  my  piece  a  poem  expressive 
of  those  peaceful  virtues  I  most  heartily  despised,  so  that  my  per- 
formance, at  the  inauguration  of  the  strike,  ran  something  like  this : 

"Oh,  not  for  me  (whack)  is  the  rolling  (whack)  drum, — 

Or  the   (whack,  whack!)  trumpet's  wild  appeal    (boo,  hoo!), 
Or  the  cry  (boo,  hoo!)  of  (whack)  war  when  the  (whack)  foe  is  come, 
Or  the   (ow!)   brightly   (whack)   flashing  steel    (whack,  whack)." 

I  can  not  convey  to  the  most  vivid  imagination  the  gestures 
which  accompanied  the  seven  stanzas  of  this  beautiful  poem.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  they  kept  pace  with  the  old  man's  peculiar  system 
of  punctuation,  until,  at  last,  overcome  with  conflicting  emotions, 
I  went  sobbing  to  my  seat,  and  wondered  why  an  inscrutable  Provi- 
dence had  given  to  the  rhinoceros  the  hide  that  the  eternal  fitness 
of  things  had  evidently  prepared  for  the  schoolboy. 

But  I  forgot  my  own  sorrows  and  dried  my  tears,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  play,  as  my  compatriots  developed  it.  Mr.  Hinman, 
who  had  been  unusually  gentle  and  self-restrained  with  me,  lost 
his  temper  with  the  boy  who  followed  me,  and  there  was  a  sound  of 
revelry  for  the  next  hour.  He  shook  the  boys  till  their  teeth  rattled 
so  you  couldn't  hear  them  cry ;  he  hit  Mickey  McCann,  the  tough 
boy,  one  whack  with  a  skate  strap,  and  Mickey  ran  out  and  rolled 
in  the  snow  to  cool  off ;  he  hit  Jake  Bailey  across  the  thighs  with  a 
slate  frame,  and  it  hurt  so  that  Jake  couldn't  howl — he  just  opened 
his  mouth  and  gasped  and  forgot  his  own  name ;  he  pushed  Bill 
Haskell  into  a  seat  and  the  bench  broke ;  he  shook  Dan  Stevens 
so  that  his  feet  didn't  touch  the  floor  for  five  minutes ;  he  ran  across 
the  room  and  reached  out  for  Lem  Harkins,  and  Lem  had  a  fit 
before  the  old  man  touched  him  ;  he  whipped  the  two  Knowltons 
with  both  hands  at  the  same  time,  and  the  Gibbon  family,  five  boys 
and  a  big  girl,  he  hit  all  at  once  with  a  girl's  skipping  rope,  and 
they  raised  such  a  united  wail  the  clock  stopped ;  he  kept  the  at- 
mosphere of  that  old   schoolroom   full   of  dust   and   splinters  and 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  163 

lint,  weeping  and  wailing,  until  his  arms  ached  and  all  our  hearts 
wearied  of  the  inhuman  strife  and  wicked  contention,  and  then  he 
stood  up  before  us,  in  a  sickening  tangle  of  strap  and  cane  and 
slate  frame,  rattan  and  skipping-rope,  and  asked,  in  clear,  trium- 
phant tones : 

"  Who  say's  there  isn't  going  to  be  any  more  speakin'  ?  " 

And  the  boys  of  that  school  rose  up  as  of  one  being,  and  shrieked 
in  tones  of  anguish : 

"  Nobody  !  " 

And  I,  who  led  that  strike,  and  was  its  first  martyr,  I  have  been 
speaking  ever  since. 


Deacon  Adams  to  His  Son* 

WHAT'S  them  things  in  yer  pockets,  Jake,  a-bulging  out  so? 
-Hey? 
What?    Apples?    After  all  my  good  advice,  you  mean  to  say 
You've  been  stealin'  apples  ag'in  on  the  Sabbath  day? 

A  stealin' !     Hain't  I  told  ye  'tis  a  sin  to  steal  a  pin  ? 

And  stealin'  apples  on  Sunday  is  a  blamed  sight  meaner  sin, 

But  you  will  keep  a  stealin'  'em,  time  and  time  and  time  ag'in. 

Sweet  apples,  too,  I'll  ventur' !     The  sickliest  kind  of  trash ! 
Such  condemned  foolish  wickedness  beats  patience  all  to  smash ; 
I  wouldn't  had  it  happen — not  for  fifty  cents  in  cash! 

To  steal  sweet  apples,  Sundays,  ain't  no  way  to  behave ; 
If  you  dodge  cholera  morbus  you'll  live  to  be  a  knave. 
And  bring  my  wig  and  nat'ral  hair  in  sorrow  to  the  grave. 

I've  tried  to  fetch  you  up  to  go  in  a  religious  way, 

And  keep  the  Sabbath  holy.     You've  often  heard  me  say 

I'd  rather  steal  the  whole  week  through  than  on  the  Sabbath  day. 


164  WERNER'S    READINGS 

You'd  make  a  pretty  deacon,  wouldn't  you?     Look  at  me! 
Did  I  get  to  be  a  deacon  by  petty  larceny? 
No,  stealin'  is  too  risky  for  genuine  piety. 

This  is  a  wicked  world,  and  pious  men  in  self-defense 
Must  circumvent  the  wicked  and  cheat  with  diligence, 
And  make  bad  men  the  victims  of  misplaced  confidence. 

I  don't  see,  Jacob,  where  you  got  your  streak  of  thievery; 
It  ain't  the  Adams'  style.     The  Adamses  was  just  like  me; 
And  on  your  mother's  side,  the  Browns  were  famed  for  honesty. 

I  hope,  I  really  hope,  that  you  won't  steal  ag'in,  my  lad, 

For  if  you  should  get  ketched  at  it,  'twould  make  me  very  sad. 

Hem !  Jacob — hain't  you  got  a  good  sweet  apple  for  your  dad  ? 


'Dikkon  s  'Dog. 

<By  DOROTHY  LUNDT. 

THE  distinguishing  trait  of  Grubbins  was  his  unexpectedness. 
Grubbins  was  Dikkon's  dog.  The  two  sat  looking  at  each 
other  with  a  look  of  perfect  understanding  and  full  companionship. 

"  'Pears  to  me  yo'  haven't  took  's  much  exercise  as  common  to- 
day, Grubbins.  Don't  yo'  feel  like  racin'  down  a  cat  or  s'uthin',  so's 
to  get  up  a  moughty  good  appetite  fer  yer  Christmas  grub  ?  " 

The  men  chuckled.  The  idea  of  Grubbins's  appetite  requiring  a 
tonic  was  a  deeply  humorous  one.  Dikkon  opened  the  door,  and 
Grubbins,  with  a  short  approving  sniff  of  the  freshening  air,  trotted 
out. 

"  Dikkon,  ma  lad,  I'll  gie  ye  a  hint  for  a  Christmas  gift,"  said 
McAllison.  "  It  was  the  Colonel  himself  was  sayin'  but  the  nicht's 
nicht,  that  the  next  complaint  of  Dikkon's  dog  that  came  tae  his  ears, 
the  beastie  wad  hae  a  bullet  an'  a  ditch,  an'  nae  mair  said ! " 

"  He  will,  will  he?    An'  what  mought  he  be,  that's  been  with  the 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  165 

old  regiment  only  six  months,  an'  not  half  the  Use  to  it  then  or  now 
that  my  old  dog — " 

"  Hold  hard,  Dikkon  !  Whist,  me  boy !  It's  the  short  cut  to  the 
guard-house  you're  takin',"  said  Mooney.  "  Bedad,  the  Colonel's 
bark  is  a  dale  worse  nor  his  bite,  we  ahl  know,  an'  Grubbins  is  tryin' 
at  times,  his  bist  frinds  know.  Take  it  lasht  shpring  when  Grubbins 
gobbled  up  little  Miss  Marion's  taffy." 

"  Miss  Marion,  she's  the  apple  o'  the  Colonel's  eye  an'  the  light 
of  it;  an'  I  pity  dog  or  man  that  sets  her  cryin'  many  times  as  she 
cried  the  other  day  when  Grubbins  caught  on  to  her  taffy  the  cook 
had  set  out  to  cool,  an' —    There  they  go  now!     See  'em?  " 

"  Faith,  it's  small  blame  to  the  Colonel,  for  it's  a  sunbame  little 
Miss  Marion  carries  in  the  eyes  of-  her,  an'  the  heart  of  her ;  an' 
she  kindled  it  from  the  wan  that  wint  away  wid  her  mother  whin 
they  laid  her,  an'  the  ould  Colonel's  heart  wid  her,  in  her  grave  a 
year  agone !  " 

And  indeed  three-year-old  Miss  Marion  was  a  winsome  sight  to 
see,  as  in  her  wee  blue-hooded  rain-cloak,  a  golden-haired  kobold, 
she  danced  across  the  parade  by  her  soldierly  grandfather's  side, 
leading  tenderly  a  tiny  terrier,  also  blue-blanketed,  and  mincingly 
remonstrant  at  the  wet  grass  that  brushed  his  dainty  paws. 

The  other  men  made  their  way  out  for  a  whiff  of  fresh  air  before 
retreat  should  sound,  leaving  Mooney  and  Dikkon  alone. 

"  It's  a  moughty  queer  world,"  Dikkon  said,  "  where  an  old 
yaller  dog  will  stand  to  one  man  for  what  a  pretty  little  baby  does  to 
another." 

"  Manin'    yersilf   an'   the   Colonel  ?  " 

"  Meanin'  just  that.  OF  Grubbins  is  about  as  much  to  me,  I 
reckon,  as  little  Miss  Marion  yon  is  to  the  ol'  Colonel.  Fer  th'  same 
reason.    All  that's  left  to  me  o'  somethin'  I  loved. 

"I  reckon  I  never  told  ye  how  I  met  up  with  Grubbins?  I 
was  in  the  Tennessee  mountings,  when  we  wor  down  there  with 
Grant.  Nigh  where  we  wor  camped  there  wor  a  cabin.  A  girl  lived 
thar  all  alone.  Her  dad  an'  five  brothers  had  gone  into  the  Union 
army,  and  they  never  com'  back.  Her  name  wor  Marcella.  She 
had  right  pretty  blue  eyes,  an'  a  cough.  Grubbins  wor  her  dog ;  a 
five-year-old  then,  an'  's  ornery  's  he  is  now.     We  got  to  be  right 


1G6  WERNER'S    READINGS 

good  friends,  she'n  I ;  I  hadn't  nary  a  red  but  my  pay ;  no  more  she. 
But  I  promised  ter  kem  back  an'  marry  her  oncet  the  fightin'  wor 
over.  'Twas  in  May,  '65,  I  got  back  there.  The  cabin  do'  was  tight 
shet.  An'  the  windows.  Ez  I  kem  up  I  heard  Grubbins  howl. 
The  neighbors  hed  jest  took  care  o'  her  an'  left  her,  an'  gone 
back  ter  get  the  coffin.  She  had  changed  considerable,  thin  as  a 
shadder.  She  had  wound  grass  round  my  ring  to  keep  it  on  her 
finger — it  wor  a  hoss-hair  ring.     I  braided  it. 

"  I  stayed  for  the  fun'ral.  Grubbins  an'  I  sot  by  her  all  day  an' 
all  night.  When  the  grave  wor  filled  in,  Grubbins  he  turned  an' 
reached  up  his  big  yaller  paw  ter  me,  an'  his  eyes  said,  '  Reckon 
it's  we  two  now,  ol'  man  ? '  An'  I  shuk  his  paw,  an'  I  says,  '  Yes, 
Grubbins,  's  long  as  we  both  live.'  An'  when  I  'listed  ez  a  reglar, 
Grubbins  'listed  'long  o'  me." 

"  An'  wid  ahl  his  ecsyncrasities,  Grubbins  is  a  credit  to  the  ould 
rigiment !     An' —     Saints  be  good  !   phwat's  that  ?  " 

It  was  a  wild  commotion  on  the  parade  ground.  There  were 
growls,  and  snarls,  and  doleful  squeals ;  rushing  footsteps,  thwacking 
blows,  a  child's  sobs,  a  stern  and  angry  voice,  and — a  short,  enraged 
howl  in  Grubbins's  unmistakable  accents. 

Dikkon  and  Mooney  were  in  the  middle  of  the  parade.  In  little 
Maid  Marion's  arms,  pressed  close  to  her  tear-stained  face,  was  a 
squealing  huddle  of  very  muddy  blue  blanket.  Grubbins,  his  yellow 
eyes  afire,  a  stout  cord  round  his  neck,  was  in  the  grasp  of  a 
soldier. 

"  Take  away  that  nasty  beast —  do  you  hear  ?  "  said  the  Colonel! 
"  I've  overlooked  his  tricks  hitherto,  because  his  master  is  an  old 
Soldier  and  a  good  one.  But  when  it  comes  to  killing  my  grand- 
daughter's pet  on  the  open  parade — " 

"  Shure  the  little  baste  isn't  dead  at  ahl,  sorr!  He's  just  dis- 
fracshured  a  bit,  in  shpots,  sorr,  but  a  shtrip  or  two  o'  plashter  '11 
make  him  as  good  as  iver  he  was,  sorr, — an  that's  no  good  at  ahl ! 
An'  Grubbins  mint  no  harm,  sorr.  He'd  niver  sane  the  loike  before, 
an'  was  just  investigatin',  an'  when  he  found  it  wad  bite — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Mooney !  Take  charge  of  that  dog !  He 
has  done  his  last  mischief.  You  will  have  him  hanged  within  an 
hour.    Not  a  word,  I  tell  you !    Come,  sweetheart,"  and  the  Colonel 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  167 

lifted  Marion,  dog  and  all,  and  set  her  on  his  stalwart  arm.  "  Hush, 
hush,  dear !  The  bad  dog  shan't  hurt  little  Fido  any  more.  Come 
home,  baby ;  come  and  find  Christmas." 

As  he  turned,  he  stopped  abruptly.  Dikkon  stood  squarely 
facing  him. 

"  Take  back  that  order,  Colonel.  Give  me  back  my  old  dog ! 
Give  him  back,  I  tell  you !  or  I'll — " 

"  Arrest  that  man !  Clap  him  in  the  guard-house.  He's  prob- 
ably drunk  or  mad.     The  court-martial  can  decide  which." 

"  Dear,  dear !  I  believe  I'm  half  a  madman  myself  when  Marion 
comes  into  a  question,"  said  the  Colonel  at  dinner.  "  More  than  ever, 
since  there  have  been  those  Apache  rumors."  There  rang  out  on  the 
windy  darkness  the  long-drawn  howl  of  a  dog,  followed  by  a 
sharp,  sudden  shot,  and  another  and  another. 

"What  is  that?  Martha,  bar  the  doors  and  windows,"  shouted 
the  Colonel.     He  caught  up  his  sword  and  buckled  it  as  he  ran. 

A  little  later  Mooney  went  to  light  the  smoky  lamp  in  the  guard- 
house cell. 

The  Colonel  stood  'just  without  the  door.  Across  the  threshold 
of  the  stables  lay  the  body  of  an  Indian ;  three  others,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  crouched  sullenly  in  the  midst  of  their  guard.  The 
faint,  far  echo  of  galloping  ponies  was  dying  away,  through  the 
wind,  over  the  plain. 

"  Let  me  understand  this,"  said  the  Colonel.  He  was  looking 
down  at  the  dead  Indian,  at  whose  belt  there  dangled  a  child's  scalp. 
The  child  had  had  golden  hair. 

Corporal    Perkins    stepped   forward. 

"  It  was  like  this,  sir.  The  half-breeds  had  probably  told  them 
Christmas  was  a  good  time  to  attack ;  they  must  have  crept  up 
through  the  brush  behind  the  stables.  There  was  a  board  loose  at 
the  back  o'  the  stables ;  this  fellow  " — he  indicated  the  dead  Indian — 
"  crept  through  it.  Their  scheme  was  to  stampede  the  horses 
first,  so  there'd  be  no  way  of  escape.     It'd  ha'  worked  well  if — " 

"Well?" 

"  If  Grubbins— " 

"  Grubbins  ?  " 

"  Yis,  sorr !  "  It  was  Mooney,  now,  standing  sheepish,  at  the 
salute. 


168  WERNER'S    READINGS 

"  Yer  orders  was  to  hang  the  dog  in  an  hour,  sorr ;  but  when  the 
min  was  a-thrimming  the  barrick-room  clock  wid  Christmas  grane, 
sorr,  they  shtopped  it  intoirely,  sorr,  an' — " 

"  Grubbins  was  in  the  stables  ?    The  dog  gave  the  alarm  ?  " 

"  Yis,  sorr.  An'  he  hild  this  divil  past  mischief,  sorr,  till  the 
senthry — " 

"  Where  is  the  dog?  " 
■  "  Shure,he's  waitin'  his  doom,  sorr,  like  his  mashter,  in  the  guard- 
house beyant.  Says  Dikkon  to  me,  this  afthernoon,  says  he,  '  What 
the  shwate  little  lady  up  yonder  is  to  the  Colonel,'  says  he — and 
little  did  he  think  that  but  for  Grubbins,  this  night,  them  divils  that's 
gallopin'  away  yon  might  ha'  been — this  blissid  minnit — " 

Apparently  by  accident,  Mooney's  foot  touched  the  golden  hair 
that  fluttered  from  the  dead  Indian's  belt. 

"  Release  Dikkon,"  said  the  Colonel  briefly.  "  Send  him  up  to 
me  to  report.  We  shall  want  all  our  available  men  before  we  can 
round  these  rascals  up." 

"  Yis,  sorr.     An'  Grubbins,  sorr  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  how  to  treat  the  dog  that  saved  the  garrison?  " 

"  Yis,  sorr.     I  think  so,  sorr." 

The  smoky  lamp  in  the  guard-house  had  almost  burned  itself 
out,  and  an  old  yellow  dog  was  whining  for  notice,  and  importunately 
licking  a  man's  clenched  hands  and  tear-drenched,  hidden  face — - 
licking  and  whining,  and  shambling  eagerly  all  about  a  man  who 
lay  prone  in  the  dust,  on  the  floor. 

"  Now  I'm  loony,  for  sho' !  Or  p'raps  it's  his  ha'nt.  I  didn't 
know  dogs  had  ha'nts." 

There  are  footsteps  and  the  light  of  lanterns. 

"  Was  it  becos  the  angels  couldn't  find  any  wings  to  fit  yo',  Grub- 
bins, that  they  fixed  yo'  up  that-a-way  ?  " 

There  in  the  full  lantern-light  stood  an  old  yellow  dog.  His 
neck  was  hung  with  Christmas  greens.  A  small  American  flag  was 
wired  to  his  tail,  and  was  wiggling  joyously.  His  eyes  met  his 
master's.    With  one  mighty  leap  he  was  in  his  master's  breast. 

"  Come  away,  b'ys,"  said  private  Mooney.  "  Grubbins  '11  be 
wantin'  to  exhplain  matthers  to  Dikkon,  and,  begorra'  we'll  be  in 
the  way." 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  169 


She  Never  Was  a  cBoy. 


<By  S.  E.  RISER. 

WHEN  I  come  home  the  other  night, 
With  an  ugly-looking  eye 
That  I  had  got  into  a  fight, 

Poor  ma  commenced  to  cry; 
But  when  I  told  pa  how  it  was, 

He  clapped  his  hands  for  joy, 
And  told  me  I  done  bully,  'cause 
Once  he  had  been  a  boy. 

"  Boys  will  be  boys,"  I  heard  him  say, 

"  They   won't   be   otherwise. 
And  the  one  that  learns  to  fight  his  way, 

Is  the  one  that  wins  the  prize ; 
When  I  was  his  age  fightin'  was 

My  greatest  earthly  joy — " 
But  ma  she  kept  on  cryin',  'cause 

She  never  was  a  boy. 

My  golly,  but  I'd  hate  to  be 

A  girl  with  fluffy  hair, 
And  always  prim  as  A,  B,  C, 

With  clothes  too  clean  to  wear ! 
When  ma  was  small  I  s'pose  she  was 

Red-cheeked  and  sweet  and  coy — 
But,  oh,  the  fun  that  missed  her  'cause 

She  never  was  3  boy ! 


170  WERNER'S    READINGS 


A  Phenomenal  cMemory. 

YOU'D  better  put  them  down  on  a  piece  of  paper,"  said  Mrs. 
S^— ,  when  about  to  give  her  first  order. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  S- — ,  "  my  memory  is  good." 

"  Well,  then,"  began  Mrs.  S— ',  "  a  spool  of  60  Coates'  black 

thread." 

'.'  Yes,"  said  Mr.  S  ;    -    "  . 

"  A  yard  of  not  too  light  and  not  too  dark  calico." 

"Yes." 

"  A  small  hammer,  a  can  of  peaches  of  the  Pasadena  brand, 
dozen  small  pearl  buttons,  two  yards  cardinal  ribbon,  silk  on  one  side 
and  satin  on  the  other." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  S-^— ,  thoughtfully. 

"  A  pair  of  slippers  for  the  baby,  a  dozen  lemons,  a  good  tooth- 
brush, a  pineapple,  two  ounces  of  sky-blue  Germantown  yarn,  an 
ounce  phial  of  homeopathic  nux  vomica  pellets,  a-^— " 

"  Wait  a  second,"  said  Mr.  S1- — -,  counting  on  his  fingers  and 

looking  perplexed. 

"And  a  bottle  of  vanilla  extract,  and  a  yard  of  triple  box- 
plaited  crepe  lisse  ruching,  and  three  yards  of  small-checked  nain- 
sook, and — " 

But  Mr.  S had  seized  his  hat  and  was  running  for  the 

station. 

What  the  poor  man  brought  home  was  a  yard  of  bed-ticking, 
three  yards  of  black  crape,  a  bottle  of  vinegar,  eight  yards  of  nan- 
keen, a  scrub-brush,  a  pound  of  green  yarn,  sixty  spools  of  "  coat 
thread,"  a  yard  of  very  light  and  a  yard  of  very  black  calico,  and 
a  pint  bottle  of  homeopathic  pills. 

"  There,  my  dear,"  he  said,  triumphantly,  throwing  down  his 
numerous  packages,  "  I  don't  think  you'll  find  a  thing  missing. 
Who  says  a  man  can't  do  shopping?  My  memory  never  played  me 
false  yet." 


AND    RECITATIONS  No.    26.  171 


44 


Good  Night." 

By  REGINALD   WHITFIELD  KAYLOR. 
[From   Four   O'Clock.] 


y. 


1FELT  in  no  mood  for  entertaining,  and  when  the  bell  vibrated 
through  the  lower  hall  and  eventually  reached  the  top  floor,  I  felt 
tempted  to  lock  my  sitting-room  door  so  that  a  chance  caller  might 
imagine  there  was  no  one  at  home.  But  I  didn't,  and  when  I 
heard-  footsteps  ascending  the  stairway  I  decided  that;  whoever  it 
might  be  he  should  be  treated  decently  at  all  events.  Because  I 
was  a  Southerner  I  felt  that  hospitality  was  every  man's  due,  and  to 
treat  a  guest  shabbily,  even  though  he  be  an  unwelcome  one,  was 
an  unpardonable  crime.  And  then  I  did  not  know  who  it  might 
be  so  laboriously  climbing  the  stairs.  I  was  expecting  no  one,  and 
I  was  in  no  mood  for  congeniality.  Of  course  it  was  my  heart  that 
bothered  me.  The  truth  of  the  matter  was,  I  had  no  heart.  I  had 
lost  it  nearly  two  months  before  ;  and  the  person  who  now  held  it  was 
such  an  audaciously  close-mouthed  little  body  that  affairs  were 
decidedly  awkward.  I  didn't  know  where  I  was  or  where  I  was 
likely  to  be. 

Of  course  we  talked  of  other  things — lots  of  things.  And  she 
was  very  kind  to  me  in  a  way.  She  was  just  as  kind  to  Harry  King 
— even  kinder,  it  seemed  to  me,  when  we  both  happened  to  be  there  at 
the  same  time,  which  wasn't  often.  I  should  have  disliked  young 
King  most  heartily  if  I  hadn't  known  that  she  was  the  custodian  of 
his  heart  also,  and  would  give  him  no  more  satisfaction  than  myself. 

But  King  had  the  advantage  of  me — he  was  bolder.  I  knew  he 
would  ask  her  first.  What  would  her  answer  be?  "  Yes,"  of  course 
— to  King,  I  mean.  He  was  better  looking,  quite  a  handsome  fellow 
in  fact ;  while  I — well,  I  was  never  noted  for  any  excess  of  beauty. 

Then  he  had  better  prospects,  and,  though  we  were  rivals,  I  must 
acknowledge  that  he  was  an  exceptionally  decent  kind  of  a  chap. 
We  were  not  particularly  intimate ;  he  had  called  at  my  rooms  to 
play  whist,  but  we  had  never  been  alone  since  we  had  met  two  years 
before. 


172  WERNER'S    READINGS 

When  I  opened  my  door  in  response  to  the  rap,  I  found  the 
hallway  in  utter  darkness,  but  I  recognizedthe  voice. 

"  Good  evening,   Mr.  Harlow." 

"  Oh !  why,  how  are  you,  King  ?  Come  in ;  I  couldn't  see  you. 
Let  me  take  your  coat  and  hat." 

"  Thanks,"  he  said :  "  I  was  up  this  way  and  saw  your  light, 
so  decided  to  drop  in  for  a  few  moments.  Hope  I'm  not  keeping 
you  at  home  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  glad  you  came.    Awfully  cold  out,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Beastly,  and  the  wind  seems  to  go  right  through  one,  but  it's 
nice  and  warm  here." 

"  Perhaps  it's  too  warm,"  I  said.  "  Let  <  me  open  a  window,  it 
will  freshen  the  room  a  bit.  I'm  a  slave  to  tobacco.  May  I  roll 
you  a  cigarette  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks;  I  never  smoke  them." 

"  Fill  you  a  pipe,  then  ? — I  have  some  very  fair  tobacco  here," 
and  in  answer  to  his  nod  I  filled  my  choicest  meerschaum.  It 
was  my  greatest  weakness,  this  meerschaum.  And  here  I  was 
actually  offering  it  to  a  fellow  I  would  have  locked  out.  When  I 
finished  filling  it,  I  handed  it  to  King  with  a  lighted  match.  He 
took  a  few  whiffs  in  silence,  then  remarked  with  evident  pleasure : 

"  Cool   smoke ! — Well  colored,  too." 

"  It's  my  favorite  pipe.  I  ruined  three  others  before  I  mastered 
the  art  of  coloring,"  and  I  drew  my  Turkish  tabourette  over  toward 
him  and  showed  him  my  collection  with  comments  and  criticisms. 
He  either  divined  my  weakness  and  humored  it,  or  else  he  was  a 
crank  on  the  same  subject,  for  he  most  assuredly  appeared  interested. 
After  pipes  came  politics,  a  subject  quite  as  congenial  as  the  pre- 
ceding one.  We  touched  the  hem  of  religion.  Then  we  told  each 
other  what  we  didn't  know  about  some  literary  folk,  not  all ;  we 
were  both  too  bright  for  that.  Ten  minutes  went  to  art.  Poor, 
slighted  art !  Could  you  have\  heard,  you  would  have  wept  tears 
enough  to  wash  your  brushes  and  moisten  your  colors  for  a  long  time 
to  come. 

Conversation  is  all  well  enough,  so  is  tobacco.  But  on  a  cold, 
blusterous  night,  a  glass  of  hot  punch,  stiff  and  well  brewed,  is 
better  still.    So  I  concocted  one  after  a  recipe  that  had  been  in  our 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  26.  173 

family  for  a  great  many  years.  The  recipe  was  written  by  a  great- 
uncle  of  mine,  who  left  it  as  one  of  his  .most  priceless  belongings. 
And  on  the  distribution  of  his  things,  this  old,  yellow,  ink-faded 
recipe  came  to  me,  while  my  older  brother  received  his  bible,  and 
worried  me  for  over  a  year  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  trade.  After 
our  punch,  we  smoked  another  pipe,  and  King  rose  to  go. 

"  Don't  hurry,"  I  said,  "  it's  early  yet." 

"  Oh,  I've  overstayed  my  time  as  it  is,"  he  replied. 

I  helped  him  into  his  coat,  and  reached  for  his  outstretched  hand. 

"  By  the  way,  Harlow,  I  had  a  motive  for  calling  to-night — a 
delicate  one,  if  you  will.  I  am  going  east  in  a  few  days.  Of  course 
you  know  that  I  have  loved  Dorothy  quite  as  well  as  I  know  that  you 
have.  To-night  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  knew  that  she  loved 
one  of  us,  and  the  only  way  to  find  out  which  one  was  to  ask  her." 

"  Then  you  wish  my  congratulations,"  I  replied,  tightening  my 
hold  upon  his  hand.  I  had  never  let  it  go  since  he  began.  I  tried 
to  smile  as  I  said  it,  but  no  doubt  failed  to  impress  King,  for  he 
looked  at  me  strangely,  I  thought,  and  his  fingers  did  the  tightening 
this  time. 

"  Oh,  no,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "  allow  me  to  congratulate  you. 
Good  night." 


Sandalphon 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONQFELLOW 


[The  Publishers  of  this  book  have  issued.  "  Sandalphon  "  arranged  as  a 
musical  recitation,  in  sheet  music  form,  with  a  specially  designed  title-page. 
The  composition  may  be  performed  also  as  a  piano  solo,  independently  of  the 
poem.      Price,    $1.]  . 


HAVE  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 
Have  you  read  it, — the  marvelous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 
Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 


174  WERNER'S  READINGS 

That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 
Alone  in  the  desert  at  night? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

With  the  song's  irresistible  stress; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the '  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands,  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below; — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafte"d  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know, — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  26.  175 

Among  them  majestic  is  standing 

Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


When  the  Northern  Bands  played  Dixie 


FRANK  L.    STANTON 


THERE  was  something  that  was  misty — like  a  tear-drop — in  my 
eye, 
When  the  Northern    bands    played  Dixie    as  Southern    troops 
marched  by. 
Ten  thousand  voices  cheering  shook  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
When  the  Northern  bands  played  Dixie  as  Southern  troops  marched 

by! 
And  well-a-day,  my  Captain,  and  ne'er  turn  down  your  hat 
To  hide  the  tear  that  answered  a  stirring  tune  like  that ! 
A  soldier  is  a  soldier;  but,  in  the  light  of  God, 
No  tune  has  ever  thrilled  me  like  that — on  Northern  sod ! 

I've  heard  it  on  our  battle-fields  where  Lee  has  led  the  way 
And  the  Federal  guns  were  gleaming  at  breasts  that  wore  the  gray; 
It  stirred  the  ranks  of  "  Stonewall " — but  now,  from  land  to  land, 
They  cheer  it  when  they  hear  it  come  ringing  from  the  band ! 

It's  one  great  country,  brethren ;  there's  not  a  barrier  wall ; 
The  flag  our  fathers  fought  for  is  streaming  over  all ! 
No  North — no  South,  save  only  a  green  dividing  line 
Arched  by  a  cloudless  heaven  where  stars  of  Freedom  shine. 

Then  let  the  bands  send  Dixie  in  music  on  the  gales, 

While  Yankee  Doodle  echoes  in  flowery  Southern  vales. 

And  well-a-day,  my  Captain,  and  ne'er  turn  down  your  hat, 

For  Dixie's  in  the  North  now,  and  we  shout,  "  Hurrah/'  for  that ! 


176  WERNER'S  READINGS 


Village   Coward 


MARY  BERRI  CHAPMAN 


T 


RAID-CAT,  'fraid  of  a  snake! 


'Fraid  of  the  noise  the  toad-frogs  make 
An'  the  log  acrost  the  stream. 

'Fraid-cat,  'fraid  of  the  dark! 

Cross  your  heart  and  die. 
If  ever  you  run  past  dead  man's  park 

Then  break  your  word  and  cry ! 

'Fraid-cat,  'fraid  of  the  girls, 

Little  Sammy  Sim — 
Baby  eyes  an'  sissy  curls — 

Stick  your  tongue  at  him ! 

'Fraid-cat,  every  one  laughed 

When  he  marched  away; 
Many's  the  "  stay-at-home  "  that  chaffed 

At  Sammy  Sim  that  day. 

'Fraid-cat,  'fraid  of  the  girls, 

But  not  of  blood  and  shell; 
Arid  the  men  that  followed  the  tumbled  curls 

Shrank  not  in  the  fire  of  hell. 

A  volunteer  for  a  daring  deed, 

A  cheer  in  the  face  of  death, 
A  laughing  word  for  his  wounds  that  bleed, 

A  smile  with  the  failing  breath. 

And  a  shaft  of  marble  above  the  sod 

Is  all  that  tells  of  him, 
But  if  ever  a  brave  boy  found  his  God, 

It's  little  Sammy  Sim ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  No,   26.  177 

Her  Garden. 

By  STANLEY  SCHELL 

Quaint  English   dialect  woman   monologue. 

Scene  :  Speaker  is  seated  on  porch  making  lace  on  a  pillow. 
She  is  facing  her  garden.  Visitors  stop  to  admire  the  flowers  and 
charm  of  the  place. 

Speaker:  Old  English  peasant  woman.  Several  persons  sup- 
posed to  be  present  looking  at  her  garden  and  making  comments. 

Ay,  they'm  nice,  aint  'em?  I  grows  'em  all  myself.  [Smiles 
sweetly  then  listens  to  what  is  being  said  supposedly.'] 

Yes.  All  the  chil'ern  have  been  gone  this  many  a  year  and 
there  be  only  me  and  my  husband  left  now.  He  do  work  at  the 
farm  there,  and  he  can  do  a  day's  work  wi'  the  best  of  'em.  I  gets 
plenty  of  time  for  my  garden  and  for  a  bit  o'  lace  making.  As  for 
the  house,  tain't  so  bad  now  that  landlord  has  put  water  in. 

[Has  a  grateful  expression  as  she  rises  and  comes  forward. 
Stands  listening.] 

Not  a  drop  save  in  the  rain  water  barrel.  Nine  and  twenty  year 
ha'  us  lived  here,  and  every  bucket  to  be  carried  all  the  way  from 
the  pump  over  there  by  them  cottages !  Tis  too  far  off  for  'ee  to 
see  en.  My  husband  would  bring  a  pailful  when  he  came  home 
from  work,  and  I  carried  the  rest.  [Gazes  around  garden,  sighs  a 
little,  listens.]     Ya  think  the  cottage  is  pretty? 

So  all  the  folk  do  say ;  but  there  be  the  drizzlin'  mist  off"  the  sea, 
and  the  drashy  dirty  fog  off  Dartimoor,  and  the  thatch  be  rotted, 
and  the  walls  wants  mending,  and  the  landlord's  put  the  water  in 
and  won't  do  nort  more.  'Tis  a  damp  old  house;  but  we'm  just  got 
to  put  up  wi'  it  and  be  thankful  we'm  got  summat.  There's  nort  to 
grumble  at  in  the  summer  when  the  sun  do  shine,  and  I've  got  my 
flowers ;  but  in  the  winter  it  be  that  cold  up  on  the  hill,  and  dark 
indoors  too  and  no  one  apassin'  by  to  cheer'ee  up  wi'  a  word.  But 
the  dark  days  go  past  somehow.  It  be  then  as  I  think  of  the 
chil'ern. 

[Lonely  look  creeps  into  eyes  and  forlornness  in  droop  of  body 
and  hang  of  hands.    Listens.) 

Far  away?    Ay,  ma'am.    Far,  far,  away  from  here, 


178  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Ay,  my  darters  be  in  London;  married  and  doin'  well,  and 
'tisn't  often  they  has  time  to  come  and  see  me.  Tis  a  bit  too 
quiet  for  'em  like.  'Tis  an  out  o'  the  way  old  spot  howsbeever. 
And  my  son  be  in  the  navy  and  lives  down  to  Plymouth  and  we 
don't  see  he  very  often.  I've  got  my  man  sure  and  sartain  if  the 
chil'ern  all  scattered  about — my  man  and  my  flowers.  We'm  got 
the  sunshine  today  too,  havn't  us? 

[Waves  her  hand  gently  as  she  moves  back  toward  house  and 
exits  smilmg  like  a  happy  child:) 


The  Mumpy  Mumps. 

By  LUCILE  CRITES 
I've  got  awful  lumpy  lumps; 
I've  got  awful  bumpy  bumps; 
And  the  doctoring  old  doctor 
Says,  I've  got  the  mumpy  mumps! 

I  can't  eat,  'cause  I  can't  chew, 
There  ain't  nothing  I  can  do, 
Father  says  they'll  soon  be  over,< 
'Cause  he  had  'em  one  time,  too. 

Brother  Tom  gave  me  a  nickel 
Just  to  eat  a  sour  pickle, 
Oh,  it  made  my  face  all  crooked ! 
And  the  tears  began  to  trickle. 

Having  mumps  makes  me  feel  old 
(Since  my  family  don't  scold) 
Mother  doesn't  make  me  wash  my  face 
Because  I  might  take  cold. 

,Gee,  I  hate  these  lumpy  lumps, 
And  I  hate  these  bumpy  bumps ; 
And  the  doctoring  old  doctor, 
'Cause  he  can't  cure  mumpy  mumps, 


AND   RECITATIONS   No.    26.  179 

Beginning  to  Clean  Out. 

Humorous  Woman  Monologue 
By  BERTHA  E.  BUSH 

Yes,  Henry,  I  think  you  are  quite  right.  Our  house  is  too  full 
of  things.  We  ought  to  have  a  big  clearing  up  and  throw  away 
everything  we  don't  use.  Let's  begin  to-day !  I'm  so  glad  it's 
rainy,  so  that  you  can't  work  and  the  children  are  at  school.  We'll 
go  over  the  drawers  and  closet  in  the  spare  room  and  dispose  of  a 
lot  of  things. 

Now  you  begin  at  the  dresser  while  I  set  the  room  to  rights 
What's  in  the  little  drawer?  Oh,  letters  and  papers.  You  can  put 
most  of  them  in  the  wastebasket. 

Mercy  me,  no !  You  mustn't  put  that  in !  That's  Bobby's  writ- 
ing set  that  he  got  for  a  prize  in  school  when  he  was  five  years 
old.  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  he  cares  about  it,  now  that  he  is 
fourteen ;  but  I  care !     Look  at  the  cunning,  sprawly  writing. 

No,  those  can't  be  burned  up.  These  are  the  notes  I  took  at 
the  State  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs  when  I  was  a  delegate. 
And  that's  my  old  diary  I  kept  when  I  was  in  the  eighth  grade. 
No,  you  can't  burn  those  up. 

Goodness,  what  are  you  throwing  now !  Those  are  Cecilia's 
merit  cards.  She  thinks  everything  of  them — or  did  before  she  got 
into  high  school.     No,  we  can't  destroy  those. 

Oh,  Henry,  take  that  out  of  the  waste-basket  right  away!  Only 
a  ten-year-old  calendar?  Yes;  but  the  picture  of  the  little  boy  on  it 
looks  exactly  like  Bobby  when  he  had  curls.  I  wouldn't  lose  it  for  a 
five-dollar  gold  piece.  And  those  are  Madge's  letters  from  Europe 
and  too  interesting  to  throw  away.  And  those  Bobby's  and  Cecilia's 
compositions.  Henry,  I  believe  you'd  better  let  me  clear  out  that 
drawer  and  you  take  the  lower  ones. 

What  are  those  white  things  ?  Those  are  petticoats.  No ;  we 
haven't  worn  them  for  three  or  four  years ;  they  are  too  full  for 
the  present  styles.  Shall  we  dispose  of  them?  Why,  Henry,  see 
all  the  good  goods  in  them ;  how  extravagant  you  are !  I've  always 
been  meaning  to  make  them  over,  but  when  I've  needed  a  new  one 
it  has  been  easier  to  buy  one  that  didn't  need  making  over. 


180  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  that's  the  dress  Cecilia  wore  when  she  was  graduated  from 
the  eighth  grade.  No,  she  can't  wear  it  now,  but  I'll  make  it  up 
some  day  and  use  the  embroidery.  And  those  are  baby  clothes  that 
were  so  cunning  I  had  to  keep  them.  Bobby's  little  shirt !  Cecilia's 
nightgrown !  She  could  hardly  get  two  fingers  in  the  sleeve  now. 
The  little  dress  she  wore  when  she  was  christened,  and  Bobby's  first 
little  white  mittens.  Oh,  I  couldn't  throw  away  those !  How  un- 
feeling you  are !  Henry,  I  guess  you  had  better  let  me  clear  out  the 
dresser  alone,  and  you  and  I  will  go  at  the  closet. 

Now  just  look  at  that  pile  of  old  hats !  If  there's  anything  in 
this  world  it's  foolish  to  keep,  it's  old  hats !  Get  them  down  every 
one,  Henry.  No ;.  I  -can't  burn  up  the  white  plush  one ;  it  cost  ten 
dollars  just  for  the  shape.  I'm  going  to  have  it  cleaned  and  re- 
blocked  some  day.  You  may  put  that  back,  Henry.  Yes,  I  think 
I  must  keep  this  little,  close  one;  it's  so  convenient.  And  that  big 
one  I  want  for  a  picnic  hat.  And  the  wide  one  is  so  becoming  I 
mean  to  trim  it  over.  And  the  black  one?  Oh,  I  guess  I'd  better 
keep  it;  I  really  need  a  black  hat.  There's  that  old  hat  of  yours 
you  can  bum  up.  You  want  to  keep  it?  Well,  it  is  a  pretty  good 
one. 

Let's  go  at  the  closet  hooks.  Oh,  I  don't  believe  it's  any  use 
taking  down  the  dresses.  It  just  makes  me  feel  distracted.  No; 
we  don't  wear  them  now,  but  they  are  all  so  good  to  make  over, 
and  just  think  if  we  ever  needed  them !  There's  that  old  suit  of 
yours.  We  might  dispose  of  that.  You  want  to  keep  it  to  go 
fishing  in?    All  right. 

Henry,  I  don't  feel  like  cleaning  out  to-day.  Let's  stop.  It 
makes  me  feel  bad  to  throw  so  many  things  away, 

The  Conquerors. 

By  M.  S.  LANCASTER 

Ma,  I'm  home  from  school  and  I'm  so  hungry — can't  I  have  a 
piece  of  this  fried  chicken,  here  in  the  ice  box? 

No,  son,  wait  until  supper,  it  will  be  ready  by  5.30.  [Shakes  L. 
finger.'] 

I  can't  wait  ma,  I'm  so  empty,  I'm  most  starved.  [Rubs 
stomach. 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  181 

No  Frank,  you  can't  have  any — if  I  give  you  a  piece,  Willie 
will  want  one,  too. 

Well,  I  don't  care,  I'm  goin'  to  have  this  wing,  or  cry. 

Well,  then  take  it,  I  don't  want  you  to  tune  up,  but  don't  let 
Willie  see  you  eating  it.  I'm  going  over  to  Mrs.  Wilcox's.  I'll  be 
back  in  a  minute  or  two. 

Gee,  this  is  good.  Hello,  Willie,  I  got  some  chicken.  Don't 
you  wish  you  had  some,  but  you  can't  have  any  'till  supper — ma 
said  so. 

Well,  it  ain't  fair.  Give  me  a  bite;  if  you  don't,  I'll  cry. 
[Rubs  R.  eye.] 

You're  on  the  right  trail,  Bill,  but  you're  telling  the  wrong  per- 
son. Give  that  speech  to  mamma,  and  you'll  get  the  chicken.  She 
hates  cry  babies.  I  know  by  experience.  [Licks  fingers  and  throws 
away  bone.] 


Betsy  Bobhity's  Bun. 

Oh,  Betsy  Bobbity  baked  a  bun, 
A  beautiful  bewitching  one, 

So  light  it  fairly  shone  with  pride, 
With  currants  a-plenty  safe  inside. 

And  Patsy  Poppity  peeled  a  peach, 
A  pear,  a  plum,  and  put  them  each 

In  a  tiny  pie  with  frosted  top, 

As  fine  as  those  in  the  baker's  shop ! 

Young  Poppity  Pup  came  racing  by, 
The  little  red  table  caught  his  eye, 

Then,  never  a  bit  cared  he,  not  he, 
That  he  had  not  been  asked  to  tea ! 

He  ate  up  Betsy  Bobbity's  bun, 
With  all  the  currants,  ev'ry  one, 

The  three  ties  at  a  single  bite, 

And  everything  there  was  in  sight ! 


182  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Apartment  Hunting. 

Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 
By  STANLEY  SCHELL 

Characters:  Mrs.  Cogswell,  speaker  present;  Mrs.  Anderson, 
her  mother,  supposed  to  be  with  her,  the  manager  of  the  Queen 
Anne,  a  very  swell  hotel  apartment  house  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

What  a  charming  entrance  hall — so  large,  so  garden  like — I  love 
palms,  and  the  paintings  are  simply  charming.  I  wonder  who  the 
artists  are — (uses  lorgnette  and  gazes  at  different  pictures)  .  .  . 
Oh,  yes.  I  believe  you  have  apartments  for  rent.  .  .  .  You  have 
one  on  the  fourteenth  floor?  How  perfectly  lovely  that  is  .  .  . 
corner?  .  .  .  just  what  we  are  looking  for  .  .  .  may  we  see  it? 
.  .  .  Thanks,  yes,  now  .  .  .  that's  what  we  are  here  for.  [Enters 
elevator.']  How  do  you  get  the  babies  up?  .  .  .  only  one  .  .  .  two 
months  old  .  .  .  you  surely  couldn't  expect  .  .  .  only  married  a 
year.  .  .  .  Just  Ma,  and  John  and  baby  and  me  ...  a  maid? 
.  .  .  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  forgot — she  doesn't  count,  however  .  .  . 
six  rooms  and  bath  we  want  to  get — yes.  .  .  .  This  it? — Oh,  the  hall 
is  hideous — and  what  very,  very  small  rooms.  .  .  .  Another  apart- 
ment above  the  larger  rooms?  Let's  go  and  see  it.  .  .  .  Oh,  how 
charming  .  .  .  this  hall  just  suits  .  .  .  isn't  it  lovely — such  a  deep 
place  for  the  hat  rack  and  such  a  fine  nook  for  baby's  carriage. 
.  .  .  Oh,  don't  you?  ...  in  the  basement — damp  place  for  a  car- 
riage. .  .  .  No  ?  Above  engine  .  room,  how  perfectly  lovely — the 
pedestal  and  Psyche  can  stand  there  then  .  .  .  $300  a  month? 
How  moderate — here's  the  parlor — ma — isn't  it  a  dear  with  all  those 
lovely  cupids  on  the  paper  and  the  mental — lovely — lovely — lovely — 
and  the  view— just  look  at  the  view — and  four  windows  right  on 
the  Park  .  .  .  and  1-2-3-4-5-6,  yes,  6  windows  on  the  street  with 
lots  of  sunshine — now  let's  see  how  we'll  furnish  the  rooms.  .  .  . 
This  room  is  lovely  for  library  and  dining  room — and  this  will  do 
for  for  me  and  baby — such  a  lovely  place  for  my  bed — and  here 
for  baby's  crib  and  here  for  the  dresser  and  in  here  is  a  good 
room  for  John — simply  charming.  .  .  .  His  bed  can  stand  just  here 
— ah,  I  know  the  other  place  is  better  but  his  bed  must  be  just 
where   I  can  see  him  before  I   close  my  eyes  at  night — and  this 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  183 

room  is  just  the  place  for  you — you  can  put  your  bed  here  and — 
oh,  you'll  prefer  to  arrange  your  own  room — of  course,  you  would 
you  dear  old  ma  .  .  .  and  here  is  the  maid's  room  with  every  con- 
venience just  for  herself — she'll  be  out  of  the  way — and  how  John 
will  love  this  bath — room — he  just  dotes  on  water — outside — I'm 
sure  he'll  spend  more  time  at  home  when  we  live  here. 

Now,  let  us  see  the  chef — I  want  to  see  the  kind  of  person  that 
does  the  cooking — and  the  kitchen — all  this  most  important — [enters 
elevator].  It  is  most  important  to  see  how  clean  the  kitchen  and 
cooking  utensils  are  kept — [enters  kitchen']. 

It's  wonderful — and — large — and  so  many  people — men  with 
white  caps  on— I  didn't  realize  the  place  was  so  big  above — it's 
certainly  bigger  below — all  things  seem  to  get  large  underneath — 
Isn't  the  chef  a  dear — and  what  dainty  menus, — and  the  copper 
cooking  vessels  I'd  feel  I  was  in  heaven  if  I  had  all  those — perfectly 
satisfied — [enters  elevator — getd  off  on  ground  floor] — is  this  where 
we  get  off — oh,  yes,  now  I  remember.  .  .  .  Thank  you  very  much 
for  showing  us  that  dear  apartment  and  the  kitchen. — I'll  speak 
to  my  husband  about  it  as  soon  as  he  comes  home  tonight — I  don't 
want  to  see  another  apartment  until  I  tell  him  all  about  it — and 
only  $300  a  month.  .  .  .  Good  morning.  [Turns  to  mother  when 
near  exit] — Wouldn't  it  be  swell  to  be  able  to  rent  such  an  apart- 
ment and  live  like  that  every  day  and  have  all  those  perfectly 
delicious  menus?  When  Jack  gets  rich,  I  know  we'll  do  so,  won't 
we  ?    Exit. 


When  Jack  Proposed. 

I  meant  to  be  quite  self-possessed  and  cool 
And  not  behave  exactly  like  a  fool ; 

Intended  to  be  calm  and  dignified, 

And  say  to  him :   "Perhaps  I'll  be  your  bride." 

And  yet  in  spite  of  all  I  thought  to  do. 

My  plans  so  fondly  cherished  ne'er  came  true, 

I  simply  laid  my  head  upon  his  breast, 
And  he  can  tell  you  all  about  the  rest. 


o 


184  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  Gossips. 

Humorous  Scotch  Encore  for  Woman. 

Ye  hae  no'  heard  aboot  Mistress  Mackintosh's  tuth?  No?  Ye 
dinna  care  to  hear  naught  aboot  it  ?  Eh !  Puir  body !  She  wor 
in  a  sair  way.  She  had  a  bad  tuth-ache,  and  sae  she  went  tull  a  den- 
tist's to  get  it  poo'd  oot.  And  when  it  were  poo'd  oot,  it  left  a 
great  big  gap  i'  her  moo',  and  she  wanted  the  gap  fillin'  in.  And 
ye'll  mind,  the  dentist  he  hadna  ony  fause  tuth  by  him  jist  then. 

Noo,  it  was  aboot  the  time  of  the  war  and  theere  were  a  lot  o' 
human  tith  knocking  aboot,  and  sae  the  dentist  he  pit  her  a  human 
tuth  in  her  moo',  and  she  went  hame,  and  she  went  to  bed,  and, 
puir  body ;  she  says  it  was  between  yan  and  twa  in  the  mornin',  she 
thocht  she  saw  a  great  lang  soldier-laddie  standin'  by  her  bed-side. 
And  he  were  glowering  doon  upon  her,  and  he  says,  "Mistress 
Mackintosh,  ma'am,  that's  my  tuth  you've  got  in  yer  heed.'  And 
she  says,  "No,  it  isna.    It's  yon  I  bocht  at  a  dentist's  this  mornin'." 

And  he  says,  "I  dinna  care  wheer  ye  bocht  it,  it's  my  tuth!  I 
come  for  it."  And  wi'  thot,  he  pit  his  finger  i'  her  moo'  and  began 
rummaging  aboot  to  get  at  the  tuth,  and  a'  at  yance  she  closed  her 
tith  upon  it  wi'  a  gay,  firm  snap!  and — she  wakened  up,  and  if  it 
wasna  Mister  Mackintosh's  finger  that  she'd  getten  i'  her  moo',  and 
were  chewin' ! 

And  noo  he's  ganging  aboot  wi'  his  arm  i'  a  sling,  a-sayin'  as  it 
were  a'  done  oot  o'  spite,  because  he  wadna  buy  a  chest  o'  drawers 
for  her  at  a  roup  the  ither  day.  But  I  dinna  think  that  likely,  for 
I  dinna  believe  that  a  woman  wad  gang  for  to  bite  her  ain  flesh  and 
bluid. 

Ye  no  like  her?  Eh!  puir  body!  No  wah  ilse  do.  She  a  crazy 
bit.     She  niver  yet  saw  the  good  in  na  mon. 

Will  ye  have  a  drink  o'  tay?  No,  then  ye'll  gang  along  hame 
noo,  yer  mon  is  waitin'  fer  ye,  good  day  to  ye,  Mrs.  MacMaims. 

'Cause  He'd  Nothing  Else  to  Do, 

By  HERBERT  GREY 
'Twas  a  pleasant  summer  morning, 
Just  the  day  om  might  enjoy. 


AND  RECITATIONS  No.   26.  185 

He  woke  and  looked  out  early, 

Thinking  how  his  time  to  employ ; 
Then  said  he :    "In  such  fine  weather, 

I  don't  care  for  work,  do  you?" 
So  he  went  to  see  his  sweetheart, 

'Cause  he'd  nothing  else  to  do ! 

Well,  they  rambled  forth  together, 

Down  the  lane,  beneath  the  trees; 

So  gently  stirred  the  shadows 

Of  their  branches  in  the  breeze : 
And  whene'er  their  conversation 

Languished  for  a  word  or  two, 
Why,  of  course,  he  gently  kissed  her, 

'Cause  he'd  nothing  else  to  do ! 

But  before  the  day  was  over, 

He  somehow  made  up  his  mind 
To  "pop  the  question"  to  her, 

If  her  heart  to  him  inclined; 
So  he  whispered,  "Sweet,  my  darling, 

Will  you  marry  me,  yes  or  no  ?" 
"Well,"  said  she,  "perhaps  I  may,  dear, 

When  I've  nothing  else  to  do!" 


Aunt  Hanner  Hayseed  Joins  a  Lodge. 

A  Monologue  By   WALTER  BEN  HARE 

Copyright,    1922,   by    Walter    Ben   Hare 

Come  in,  Cyrinthy,  and  set  down.  [Hobbles  to  right  and  greets 
hcr.~\  I'm  glad  you  come  to  see  me.  At  last  I  can  unbosom  my 
troubles  into  a  sympathetic  ear. 

Set  down.  Me?  I  can't  set  down.  I  shouldn't  wonder  ef  I'd 
never  set  down  agin  in  the  whole  course  of  my  natural  existence. 

Yes,  I'm  awful  feeble. 

That  bruise  over  my  eye?  That's  one  of  the  things  that's 
troublin'  me. 


186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Only  one,  however?  There's  others,  Cyrinthy,  too  numerous  to 
mention.  No  I  didn't  meet  with  no  accident,  it  was  worse'n  that. 
I  look  like  I'd  been  run  over  by  a  threshin'  machine,  I  know  it.  I 
feel  like  it  too.  I  got  a  misery  in  every  place  possible,  and  in  some 
places  that  I  never  dreamed  of. 

Yes,  my  ankel's  sprained,  too.  And  I  can't  taste  food-vittels  no 
more.     My  tongue's  lost  its  power  of  taste. 

What  happened  to  me?  Ain't  you  heard?  [Pause.]  I've  jined 
the  lodge. 

I  never  dreamed  it  'ud  be  anything  like  it  was.  I  couldn't 
imagine  such  a  thing.  The  things  I  seen  and  the  things  they  made 
me  do  is  past  all  imaginin'. 

Tell  you?  Glad  to.  I  have  to  tell  someone  or  bust!  First,  they 
said  they'd  put  me  in  the  ante-room.  I  thought  that  was  real  nice 
of  'em  having  a  room  named  all  in  my  honor,  'cause  the  folks  here 
in  the  village  has  been  calling  me  Auntie  Hanner  for  twenty  years. 
It  was  a  smahMand  of  a  hall-bedroom  with  cheers  around  in  a  row 
and  pegs  to  hang  yer  things  up  on.  I  sot  there  by  myself  about  half 
an  hour  while  the  sistern  were  havin'  a  meetin'  in  the  lodge  room. 

At  last  two  of  the  sistern  come  out  and  said  they  was  ready  fer- 
ine. I  got  up  ca'm  and  dignified  and  started  into  the  other  room, 
_but_I  was  yanked  back  quicker'n  scat.  I  thought  jinin'  a  lodge  was 
sump'm  sweet  and  serious,  like  when  I  jined  the  Congregationalists, 
but  I  larned  different  purty  quick. 

They  tied  a  handkerchief  'round  my  eyes. 

What?  Yes,  they  did,  actually.  And  it  'twan't  clean  'nuther. 
Then  one  of  the  sistern  gave  a  loud  bang  at  the  door  and  started  to 
talk  Bible  talk  to  someone  on  the  inside.  The  first  thing  I  knowed 
they  was  leadin'  me  into  the  presence  6i  the  Royal  Queen  Bee  and 
they  told  me  that  she  was  settin'  on  her  golden  throne  a-waitin'  to 
receive  me. 

Well,  I  dunno  nothin'  about  her  bein'  a  Bee,  but  one  thing  I 
know,  and  that  is  that  I  got  stung.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Cyrinthy, 
I  was  treated  like  a  slave  and  a  heap  worse.  They  ran  me  around 
till  I  lost  my  breath,  they  pulled  me  over  a  rough  road  and  dropped 
me  into  a  bee-hive,  they  dipped  me  into  a  crick  and  they  interduced 
me  to  their  royal  billy-bumper.    My,  I  was  mad !    With  my  eye  all 


AND    RECITATIONS   No.    26.  187 

bunged  up  with  a  bruise  and  my  ankle  twisted  and  me  half  dead 
with  fright,  and  they  said  it  was  making  me  a  true  and  loyal  sister 
out  of  me.  If  they  treat  their  sistern  like  that,  I  wonder  what 
they'd  do  to  their  mothers. 

Is  that  all  ?  No !  They  told  me  to  bend  over  and  pick  a  little 
flower,  and  I  bent.  But  it  was  a  fatal  bend.  I  was  struck  from 
behind  half  way  between  the  altar  and  the  Queen  Bee.  I  tore  the 
blind  .off 'n  my  eyes  and  rushed  outa  that  room  and  down  the  stairs 
and  home  again  without  even  stoppin'  to  git  my  bunnet  and  shawl. 
And  I  ain't  set  down  since.  They  said  sump'm  about  givin'  me  the 
grip,  but  what  they  did  give  me  was  worse'n  the  grip  and  the  influ- 
enza to  boot,  and  I'm  done  with  lodges  forever!     Forever! 

Good-bye,  Cyrinthy.  Don't  tell  your  husband.  You  know  it's 
all  secret. 


"De  Conjure  Man. '' 

By  CHARLES   C.  JONES 

Dey's  a  Cunjure  Man  in  a  place  I  knoAv, 

But  I  ain'  gwine  go  to  see ; 
An'  he  live  down  dar  on  de  Long  Bayou 

By  dee  beeg  ol'  cypress  tree; 
An'  he's  black  ez  soot,  an'  his  eyes  is  red, 

An'  his  fingers  long  an'  slim, 
An'  his  teefs  fell  out  o'  his  ol'  bald  head  ; 

An'  I  got  no  use  f  o'  him ! 

Say  de  Cunjure  Man :    "What  you  plague  me  fo'  ?" 

So  I'se  glad  I  come  by  day, 
But  I  say :     "Suh,  please,  dey's  a  yalleh  Joe 

Try  to  steal  mah  M'liss  away." 
"Don'  you  name  no  names !   Jes'  you  pay  me  right," 
Say  de  Cunjure  Man  so  quick; 
"Den  you  come  back  yere  wif  de  mawnin'  light, 

An'  we  mek  some  niggah  sick!" 


188  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Den  he  show  two  sacks,  when  I  come  again, 

What  is  had  tobacco  in ; 
An' I  don'  know  what  dey  is  in  'em  den — 

Mebbe  piece  o'  bat-wing  skin, 
An'  de  lid  peeled  off  from  a  lizard's  eye 

When  dey  ain'  no  moon  or  sun, 
An'  some  dead  man's  hair — but  I  ain't  gwine  try 

Fo'  to  peek  ner  projick  none! 

An'  he  sidle  clost,  an'  he  say :    "Dese  two 

Wjf  de  half-charm  each  I  fill, 
Now  you  fin'  de  door  whut  he  mus'  come  froo, 

An'  you  slip  one  'neath  de  sill ; 
But  de  oder  sack  what's  de  res'  o'  dis, 

In  de  runnin'  water  f row ; 
An'  de  man  what  try  fo'  to  steal  yo'  M'liss 

Gwine  to  stay  roun'  yere  no  mo' !" 

"Caze  de  curse  o'  de  wanderin'  foot,  it  bide 

Fo'  to  wrop  him  like  a  coat: 
Ef  he  once  step  foot  'crost  de  sack  you  hide, 

Den  ez  long  ez  t'odder  float, 
It  will  dog  him  on,  an'  he  cain't  turn  home! 

Ef  de  buzzard  sail  de  sky, 
Or  de  squinch-owl  screech,  he  mus'  roam  en'  roam 

Twel  he  done  lay  down  to  die !" 

So  I  tuk  mail  foot  in  mah  hand  dat  day 

An'  I  done  it  all  up  slick ; 
Ner  I  ain'  fo'got  how  de  Cunjure  say 

Us'll  make  some  niggah  sick. 
An'  we  done  dat,  too !    But  it  jes'  do  prove 

How  de  bes'  o'  plans  goes  wrong: 
'Caze  de  charm  don  wuk  fo'  to  mek  Joe  move, 

But  he  tuk  mah  M'liss  along! 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  189 

Aunt  Mandy's  Mating. 

By  CA  THERINE  RHODES  DA  VIS 

Copyright,  1912,  by  the  Shortstory  Publishing  Co.  Copyright  secured  in  Great 
Britain.  Used  by  Edgar  S.  Werner  &  Co.,  by  special  permission  and  arrangement  with 
the    Shortstory    Publishing   Co.      All    rights   reserved. 

Humorous  negro  dialect  woman  monologue  in  two  parts. 
Aunt  Mandy,  a  colored  laundress,  speaks. 

Part  I. 

Howdy,  honey,  how  you  does  dis  mawnin'  ?  Feelin'  good  ?  Dat's 
fine !  Dat's  de  way  I  laks  to  fin'  yo\  No'm,  I  ain't  so  pyert,  mlse'f . 
Dat  good-fer-nothin'  Lize-Jane,  she  done  had  de  cholry-marvels  all 
night,  an'  kep  me  up  awaitin'  on  her  till  I'se  mos'  tuckered  out  dis 
mawnin'. 

Dat's  a  offul  purty  way  yo'  got  o'  fixin'  yo'  hair  up,  chile.  Hit 
makes  yo'  look  so  indifferent. 

Wall,  honey,  we  sho'  did  have  a  fine  discohse  at  church  las' 
night.  Brer  Abram,  he's  a  mighty  smaht  niggah,  an'  sich  a  pohtable 
man,  honey.  When  he  riz  up  dar  in  de  sanctimony,  wid  his  long 
black  princess  coat,  I  sez  to  myse'f :  "He  sho'  is  a  han'some  niggah." 
He  sez :  "Dearly  beloveds,  my  tex'  am  a  easy  one.  It  am  one  yo' 
can  all  'membah,  an'  hits  one  I  wants  yo'  all  to  live  by.  Hit  anr 
dis :  'Be  hones'  an'  fraud  no  man.'  Chile,  dat  niggah  sho'  did 
preach  frum  dat  tex'.  I  disremembers  now  jes'  where  yo'll  fin'  hit 
in  de  Book;  but  he  sho'  did  tell  dem  niggahs  'bout  dey  se'ves.  He 
cum  along  home  side  o'me  an'  he  went  to  tellin'  me  'bout  how  mis- 
able  a  life  he  wuz  a  leadin'  since  Mis'  Abram,  she  done  went  and 
died  from  assumption  uv  de  lungs.  I  tole  him  go  'long  off  wid  his 
lonesomeness,  I  ain't  bothered  'bout  hit.  But  dat  fool  niggah,  he 
say  it  ain't  good  fo'  man  to  be  'lone.  He  done  been  a  tellin'  me 
kyant  nobody  cook  lak  me.  He  say  he  want  er  git  me  to  reside 
ovah  his  table  an'  make  his  life  a  blossomin'  pergolory  an'  be  his 
seamster,  too. 

When  you  helped  me  get  my  divorce  off  Davy  when  he  ran  off 
with  that  yellow  girl,  I  sed  I  never,  never  would  marry  again,  but 


190  WERNER'S   READINGS 

men  kin  'suacle  an'  'su-u-ade.    Dey  des  'suades  an'  suades  tell  a  pa' 
weak-minded  'oman  ain't  got  no  min'  at  all. 

You  say  his  wife  ain't  bin  dead  a  year  yet?  Sis'  Abram's 
deader'n  nit !  She's  dead  ez  she'll  ever  be !  'Tain't  no  use'n  me 
lettin'  dis  chance  slip  by.  Too  many  yaller  girl  a  traypesin'  roun' 
after  Brer  Abram,  chile.  De  book,  hit  say  "a  bird  in  han'  's  wuf 
a  hun'ed  in  a  cage."  An'  hit  say  to  strike  when  de  i'un's  hot.  I 
'low  I  better  not  take  no  chances  on  dat  pohtable  preacher  niggah. 
He  might  make  another  indecision.  So,  I  fetch  dis  here  enyellup 
an'  dis  paper  fo'  you  to  write  me  a  letter,  honey,  an'  I  wants  yo'  to 
do  you'  best.  He's  a  edjicated  niggah,  chile.  Say  dis  as  I  tells  hit 
to  yo'. 

Deah  Reve'nd  Abram : 

De  hours  am  slow  an'  weary  sense  yo'  done  went  away.  Your 
honeyful  words  been  buzzin'  in  my  yeahs.  I  been  'flectin'  on  you' 
pohtable  'pearance,  an'  yo'  condescendin'  offer  to  encumber  me  wid 
yo'se'f.  I  ain't  findin'  it  in  my  heart  to  infuse  yo';  so  I  seat  myse'f 
an'  takes  my  pen  in  hand,  to  write  you  dese  few  lines  to  let  yo'  know 
I  will  except  yo'  offer. 

I'se  been  amournin'  fo'  you'  presence  jes  laik  a  little  mou'nin' 
dove,  mournin'  fo'  hits  mate. 

Frun  you'  own  true  love, 

Mis'  Mandy  Carter. 

Mist'  Abram1,  he  done  went  an'  bought  dis  here  paycock  blue 
ca'fsmere  and  dis  cream  lace  fo'  to  ornify  me  fo'  de  weddin'  [Pre- 
sumably shoivs  cashmere  and  lace  to  listener.]  An'  dis  here  mis- 
quiter — honey :  you  is  sich  a  good  seamter. 

An'  my  gal,  Pearline,  an'  his  gal,  Rubifoam,  dey's  gwine  to  be 
de  fiower-gals,  an'  my  tother  gal,  Exsy,  she  gwine  be  maid  of  honoh, 
her  full  name  is  Esxema.  We  des  say  Exsy  fo'  short.  All  my 
chilluns  got  quality  names.  My  baby  girl,  we  calls  her  Angy  fo' 
short ;  but  her  full  name  is  Angina  Pectoris.  Dat  name  come  outen 
a  medicine  book.  Mist'  Abram,  he  says  his  boy's  name  Agamenon; 
but  when  he's  little,  he  be  so  pesterin'  bad,  alius  an'  forever  into 


AND   RECITATIONS  No.    26.  191 

trouble,  dat  dey  des  tuck  to  callin'  him  Trouble,  till  dey  des  say 
Troub  fo'  short.  You  gwine  show  me  'bout  dat  weddin'  gown, 
ain't  you,  honey? 

Part  II. 

Chile,  you  was  at  my  weddin',  wasn't  you?  Did  you  token 
notice  ob  dat  weddin'  bell  ?  An'  arter  dey  sund  de  hymn  "One 
more  mourner  done  cum  through,''  did  you  hear  dat  preacher  say 
"S'lute  the  bride?  You  seed  dat  bride  take  dat  pohtable  preacher 
out  dah  doah  ?  Honey,  I  des  does  love  an'  adoah  dat  niggah ;  but  he 
not  gwine  s'lute  a  dis  bride  'fo'  all  dem  white  folks.  Xo,  sah;  he 
do  his  salutin'  at  home. 

Look  a-yonder,  honey!  See  dem  clouds?  'Never  you  see  de 
sky  a  disgrainnin'  an'  de  clouds  a  havin'  convulsions,  yo'  can  sho' 
look  out  fo'  some  kin'  uv  weather.  An'  I  got  to  be  moseyin'  on 
kyase  Mist'  Abram,  he  done  been  tellin'  me  not  to  inspose  myse'f. 
Fo'  I  goes,  honey,  I  wants  to  ax  you  to  order  me  a  dime  can  o' 
constipated  lye.  A  cook?  No,  chile,  I  don't  know  whar  you'd  fin' 
one.  Dis  yistiddy,  dey  wux  three  white  womans  out  our  way  astin' 
if  we  knowed  any  colored  ladies  that  wants  to  cook.  You  see, 
honey,  we'se  all  got  husbands  an'  our  husban's  don'  permit  us  to 
work. 

You  know  dat  triflin'  yaller  gal,  Vashti?  Dat'n  what  paints  her 
ugly  self  and  wears  specs?  She  say  she  haf  to  wear  'em  kase  of 
her  vision  of  eyesight.  She  des  apein'  white  folks.  Don't  need  'em 
no  moah'n  I  does !  She  been  a  tryin'  to  tote  Mist'  Abram  'way 
f rum  home.  What'd  I  do  ?  I  done  a  plenty.  I  bent  her  to  a  frazzle 
an'  tuk  a  broom  an'  knocked  dat  pohtable  niggah  down  an'  beat 
him  up  so  good  he  been  feelin'  pohly  ever  since. 

Honey,  don'  you  ever  let  nobody  run  over  you.  none  o'  dese 
photographer-womens  what  work  on  writtin'  machines  'n'  nobody ! 
You  stan'  up  fo'  yo'se'f,  honey — yo'  man'll  like  yo'  heap  better, 
chile ;  I  des  does  love  an'  adoah  dat  niggah. 


192  WERNER'S   READINGS 


Song  of  Good~By. 

By  FRANK  L.  STANTON 

To-day,  alas,  the  golden  pitcher  is  broken : 

The  last  sad  words  I  drearily  repeat; 
Yet  take  from  me,  dear  heart,  this  latest  token: 

A  flower  my  memory  leaves  at  thy  dear  feet ! 

The  only  one !  .  .  .  Perchance  'twill  deck  thy  bosom 
When  I  afar  shall  from  thy  presence  be; 

A  mockingbird  sang  sweet  upon  a  blossom 
And  dashed  it  down  to  me. 

I  am  the  one  that  heard  the  bird-songs  ringing, 
When  never  bird  sang  in  the  sunshine  fair; 

I  am  the  one  that  saw  the  summer  springing 
When  winter  made  a  garland  of  his  hair. 

I  am  the  one  who  said :    However  lowly 

Thy  steps  may  tread,  there  will  still  be  a  hand 

To  lead  thee  to  the  pleasant  paths  and  holy, 
And  to  the  lovelier  land. 

Remember  this  :    Through  long  years  I  shall  miss  you, 
When  lie  our  paths,  as  they  must  lie,  apart; 

I  shall  grope  weary  through  the  dark  to  kiss  you 
And  listen  for  the  beating  of  your  heart ! 

But  if,  some  day,  you  only  shall  remember 
One  beautiful  and  crowned  supernal  day; 

Then  shall  my  loneliest  life's  unloved  December 
Beam  like  a  perfect  and  immortal  May! 


